


Beyond Death

by Tsuki



Series: Darkness Cannot Drive [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Batman: The Animated Series, DC Animated Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Canon What Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuki/pseuds/Tsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Listen, I heard the old man talking to Clark last night. They said something about someone named Jason." Follows Batman Beyond animated series, with influence/characters from the Batman Beyond 2.0 and Batman Beyond Universe comics as well as the new 52.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my story, folks! This is the first section of a 3-part multi-chapter series that blends Batman Beyond tv/comic universe with the new 52 Batman/Red Hood universe. Hopefully should be clear and enjoyable even if you only know one of those series. Slash themes in later chapters.  
> (Edited and reposted from ff.net)

  
_As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames_  
 _No light, but rather darkness visible._  
  
 _–_ **John Milton, Paradise Lost**

  
He has always felt most at home in the dark. Even before (such a long time, before...) before his association with capes and bats, he used to sit in his room, listening to the dark as if it had stories to tell him, the only light being the faint, orange tip of his cigarette. It's the same even now, only he's stopped smoking and the wall projections casts a sickly green-blue glow far brighter than his cigarette ever was. But the feeling is the same— the openness, the waiting.  
  
He knows he'll find a story tonight. The news feeds (all seventeen from the various surrounding areas) telling tales of murders, kidnappings, and gang violence. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but he knows something will speak to him. Something always does.

  
The feed in the upper left corner (Star City, satellite AT-52, one of the few not owned by the dissolving Queen Industries) reports on the ten dead bodies found in the warehouse, the one that was being used to cover up a small but notable snuff-pornography ring. The men were either shot point-blank or stabbed with an unidentified jagged weapon, the news avatar reports. ' _The police are currently pursuing a lead involving a recent sighting of what witnesses describe as a masked vigilante.'_

He smiles. It took the police far longer to catch on than they would in most cities (still sooner than some, sooner than Gotham, he reminds himself).

He's moved on since then. Almost half of a week now, so he's not concerned. He clicks the AT feed off and replaces it with one from Metropolis. He won't go there— not now, not ever, not even with 500 tons of kryptonite— but he likes to keep watch. He switches off Jump City's feed, replaces it with a second feed from Bludhaven. He is only half watching the feed on the bottom of the screen, currently showing an attack on some banquet. Something about—

  
 _'This was the scene just three hours ago as a man claiming to be the legendary Joker disrupted a ceremony at the newly opened Wayne Enterprises Building. Adding to the drama was the appearance of another Gotham icon, the Batman, who engaged his one-time foe in a stunning aerial battle.'_

"Stop!"

The feeds all pause, horror stilled in time. The darkness presses around him— he can't breathe. All he can do (God, all he can ever do) is stare at the crazed, yellow eyes projected on the wall. For a while, he doesn't trust his voice. Then— ever so softly, as to make sure that he doesn't scream, doesn't alert the neighbors that something is wrong, that an unstable dead-man is living next-door— he whispers "Play."

 _'Hello, Gotham! Joker's back in town!'_ And then the laugh. Oh God, the laugh...

He turns off the news feeds and sits silently in the dark. Then he gets up slowly, walks to the fridge and gets a beer (one of the cheap ones— he won't taste it anyway). He realizes, vaguely, as if from a great distance, that his hands are shaking, ever so slightly.

He won't go out tonight. Not on patrol, not for anything. He knows he'll end up killing someone (maybe a lot of someones) if he does, and it may not even be someone who deserves it. He finishes his beer and goes to bed early. Some strange, humorless part of his brain makes a joke about sleeping like the dead.

The next day, he goes to the grocery store. He buys some rice krispies and mac & cheese. Both are on sale. Later, he laser-sharpens his knives. He stays in again that night, just in case. He watches an old horror movie. He considers calling Bruce— considers saying _'If you don't kill him, I'm going to fucking do it for you!'_ But Bruce probably has enough ghosts in his head for now, and so—despite how much he wants to—he doesn't.

The next day he stops a guy ripping off a convenience store. He beats him far more viciously than he needs to, and it feels great.

The next day, a press conference is held in Gotham. The official position of Commissioner Gordon (Barbara, he smiles to himself) and the GCPD is this: the Joker is dead, destroyed in his own satellite-laser blast. The rest of the conference is devoted to the Mayor's plans for the reconstruction of the battle-damaged sections of the city.

The police offer no evidence of why they believe the Joker to be dead. But he watches Gordon's face and sees the subtle conviction there. She knows, and she knows because there are shadows who have told her so, told her things that she cannot repeat to the world through a microphone. The Joker is dead. But he is not satisfied— not yet.

He calls out through his computer system (he has to unhook the ear-piece from his helmet; he uses it so infrequently), using his most friendly voice when he asks to speak to the Commissioner. She answers after only five minutes of leaving him on hold.

"What do you want?" Her voice is cold, the way he knew it would be. He left no friends in Gotham.

His own voice is uneven, cracked like a teenager's. "How did he die?"

The hesitation is brief. "The Joker was able to return using a bio-chip implanted in... in a host's brain stem. As far as we know, it's the only one. The new Batman destroyed the chip— over-loaded it with electricity. The host is fine, but the Joker is gone." Her voice softens a bit, and he vaguely remembers her as she was, as Batgirl. "It's okay now, Jay."

He snorts. He can't help himself— it's just so funny and so untrue. "Did he know what he was doing?"

"Who?"

"The kid. The new Batman."

"I believe so. Yes."

He nods, humming softly to himself. "I'll have to buy him a beer or something next time I'm in town."

He hears Barbara stiffen— like a livewire. "You're planning on coming back?"

"What's he like? The new kid?"

Barbara allows him to dodge the question, but it still hangs in the air, static. "He's good."

"But not great?"

She hesitates, possibly considering. "No. Not great."

He thought not. He has stopped paying attention to Justice League wannabees after he punched out the teeth of the last "new" Green Arrow—the one who started showing up after Arsenal (fucking Roy Harper, who he still missed like crazy sometimes) died and after that other cute Arrow chick retired. None of these new vigilantes were good enough or fast enough. But some part of him held out hope for Batman— held out hope that Bruce had fucking learned.

"That's a pretty serious problem," he finally says.

"Yes,” Barbara sighs. “I agree—it is."

He makes a decision, his mind only half-thinking, his chest clenching. "Alright. I'm coming back."

"Bruce won't be..."

"Whatever. If he's sending out a half-assed Batman, it's his own fault. Besides, I have a responsibility— me more than anyone. You know that."

"I do," Barbara sighs. "Just try not to make my job any harder, okay? Nothing like the warehouse in Star City."

"Awe, you're following my work? I'm touched." And he is, after a fashion.

"I try and keep tabs on everyone who could still be..."

"...a problem?" he finishes for her.

"Yes."

"Well, at least you're honest." He grins into the phone, knowing he can't be seen, but that Barbara will know anyway. She was always good at that.

"What do you want me to tell Bruce?"

"Tell him whatever the hell you want. Or don't tell him anything. It's not like he'll be surprised anyway."

The commissioner laughs without humor. "No, I suppose he won't."

"See you around, Babs. Good luck keeping sickos like me locked away and all." He hangs up the phone, the grin staying on his face a few moments longer than he expected it to. He's going home. He's going to see the (new, old, whatever) Batman. And, ding-dong, the Joker is dead.

For the first time in years, perhaps in decades, Jason Todd is looking forward to something.

.

"Hey Wayne! You fall asleep at the computer again?"

The growling echo in his cowl lets Terry know that, no, the old man had just been ignoring his constant chatter. Bruce had gotten better at that— at ignoring the excess and focusing on the minute change in Terry's voice when something was actually important. But he had missed this one and Terry doesn't think he has time to repeat himself.

_[What is it, Terry?]_

"I think I've got someone following me again."

_[Do you have a visual?]_

"No. Whoever this guy is, he's good." Terry has been feeling eyes— burning, stinging, unnerving eyes— on him for about a week now, whenever he went out on patrol. But he hasn't been able to catch sight of anything. Every once in a while he hears the sound of boots on brick or the scrape of metal on pavement, but he never sees any sign of what he now thinks of as his "bat stalker."

 _[Stay alert.]_ Wayne's voice is gruff in his ear.

"Roger." Terry pulls his red glider wings back into his suit and lands near-effortlessly on the top of the Gotham Tech Museum.  
Inside, he can see the shapes of eight masked men loading decade-old cell-cloning prototypes onto a small hover cart. There'd been a recent spike in the illegal cloning industry of late, and even that exhibit's older technology could sell for a bundle in the right circles.

"Hey," Terry hums into his cowl, "the tip was good. Now how about I go in there and make sure those guys have a museum pass?"

 _[Be careful, T—]_ is the last thing Terry hears as he fires up the jets on his boots and barrels through the open skylight. The gun shots start almost immediately, and Terry grins like a wild cat as he swerves and spins, hearing the faint hissing sound as laser points hit the wall, the ceiling, anything but him. He holds back a keyed up war-whoop as he throws seven successive batarangs at the thieves' weapon-holding hands.

Six connect with the men's fingers and they cry out in pain. One just hits a gun, sending it flying sideways, but not far.

The masked man recovers quickly and makes a dive. He has the gun in his hand by the time Terry's even acknowledged what happened.  
The gun goes off, the laser shot skimming his right bicep (enough to leave a burn, could be worse). Terry darts sideways and shoots forward, boots at full blast. He slams his left fist into the man's shoulder and there's a faint snapping sound. The mask muffles a groan as the gun clatters to the tile floor.

One man tries to get up again, but the Batman (Terry sometimes wonders where the shift in his mind starts and ends, who is who and when) slams a well-aimed kick into the man's stomach. He falls, and the rest are smart enough to stay down.

"Got 'em," Terry mumbles into his communicator. "Wait... no. I only count seven. One's missing." He shifts into a fighting stance and scans the room cautiously. The only sounds are the men— the ones already on the ground, fingers sliced and a shoulder fractured— groaning in slightly exaggerated pain (Gotham's thugs have learned that the DAs go lighter on the sentence if Batman has roughed them up more than necessary; they all play it up in anticipation).

"Any thoughts?" Terry whispers.

 _[Check the perimeter.]_ Terry can guess that Wayne may be as nervous as the young Batman is, but he doesn't let it show in his voice—which Terry oddly resents and appreciates at the same time.

He scans the room, waiting. The perimeter of the room is clean and, perhaps more importantly, silent. "I think he got away."

 _[Don't jump to conclusions!]_ The cowl's ear-piece buzzes. _[Check the stairs.]_

"If he made it to the stairs, he would have shot at me from above," Terry grumbles. "It's the only spot that he could attack from that I couldn't reach. There's no reason to get there and... do... nothing..." Terry freezes. His communicator crackles and is silent.

 _[Terry?]_ Old man Wayne's voice is impatient and worried.

"Um, you'd better see this," the young Batman gulps. Terry's vision goes blue and inverts for a second as the camera flickers on.  
Now Bruce sees the same thing he does. Lying on the steps is the final masked thief, eyes and mouth open like a grotesque parody of a dead fish. A sharp, twisted knife is sprouting out of his chest like a budding plant, the blood pooling along the steps.

"What now?" Terry's voice sounds calm, collected— like Batman— but all of his nerves feel like they want to jump out of his body, and he thinks Wayne can tell.

_[I've called the police. Tie up the rest and get out of there.]_

"Roger that!" Terry slings a roped batarang around the seven (live) thugs, tying the end in a triple knot, just in case. (Just in case of what, he doesn't know— but a dead man on the stairs who wasn't dead a few minutes ago isn't something Terry feels very good about).

He spreads his red wings and rockets up through the skylight two minutes before the whir of sirens can be heard barreling down the main streets of Gotham. Therefore, he also misses the red hooded man, sitting on a gargoyle across the street from the museum, twirling a knife sideways on his index finger.

"You're welcome," the red mask chuckles, watching the young Batman's silhouette disappear into the night.


	2. Connections

"Hey Commish!"

Barbara Gordon looks up from her data screen, frowning. "Aren't you supposed to be in school, McGinnis?"

"Free period," Terry shrugs, a small smirk playing on his lips. "I'm probably supposed to be studying for my History test, but..." A shadow moves across his features. "I'm more interested in a different type of history right now."

"Oh?" She tries not to encourage the kid, but he's done a lot for the city. Plus, he's a Bat, and therefore he's family.

"Listen, I heard the old man talking to Clark last night. They said something about someone named Jason. Supes sounded pretty concerned, and Bruce just sounded pissed. I asked him about it later, but you know how he is. Totally clammed up. Won't tell me a thing." Terry grits his teeth and plops down in the chair in front of Barbara's desk. "I think it has something to do with the dead guy. The one who was stabbed. Bruce was kind of freaked out looking over the style of the knife. Well as freaked out as he ever looks. And he called Clark right after." Terry looks up, searching. "Thoughts?"

Barbara doesn't respond. A part of her (the  _Batgirl_  part) jumps in pride that Terry has a streak of detective in him after all. But the other part (the part that remembers the cold metal of a wheelchair, that wakes up at night in a cold sweat at the memory) keeps her in check. "If Bruce felt it was something you needed to know, he would have told you himself, Terry. You need to trust his judgment."

"Funny. I could have sworn that his judgment not to tell me about the Joker almost got me killed about a month ago."

Barbara sighs, half defeated. "He... Jason... the 'Red Hood'... well, he's an old friend, Terry. And... and an old enemy. It's complicated."

Terry's eyes narrow, become Batman eyes. "How complicated?"

" _Very_. And, yes, he's probably the one who killed your tech thief."

"Think he's the one that's been tailing me too? I've had a Bat Stalker for about a week now."

Barbara raises an eyebrow. "Probably. He was never very good at following someone without them knowing it." Despite herself, the Batgirl-side wins out and Commissioner Gordon finds herself smiling a sweet, nostalgic smile. "Tried to catch Nightwing off guard back when he was in the Teen Titans. Almost ended up with a broken hand because of it."

Batman's face turns back into Terry's— a face of interest and shock. "Wow, so we really are talking about an  _old_  friend, huh? Geeze, I'm surprised this guy can walk, let alone keep up with the car."

Barbara starts, shifts back into herself. "It's complicated, McGinnis."

"So you keep telling me." Terry's voice is hard, bitter. He stands up and shoulders his backpack. "Sounds like there's a lot of history here. And I hope you realize that no matter what you do or don't tell me, I'm in the middle of it."

Barbara doesn't have a chance to respond before her office is empty again. Which is fine, because she still has no idea what she would say.

**.**

Everyone is haunted by ghosts today, he thinks. Maybe even ghosts are haunted by ghosts.

It's late afternoon when he finally makes it to Crime Alley. It doesn't look so scary anymore, but the crackling energy is there— like Two-Face after his facial reconstructive surgeries, broken even under the fixed appearance. A small, gold sign advertises the area as  _Gotham's Historic District_. And Jason laughs, knowing that it must have been Bruce who coined the pathetic phrase.

He finds his old apartment building, now being turned into office space and start-up shops. He wonders if anyone will open up anything successful there— where that girl was raped, where that family of five was murdered— or if the presence of ghosts will eventually turn Crime Alley into what it, at the core, always will be: a nurturer of sin, of grime and pain.

A strange part of Jason hopes almost reverently for the latter.

He starts to leave as the sky dims; it's nearly dusk. Enough time to get back to his place, to suit up for patrol. But Time has a sense of humor and stops for a moment, is interrupted by a throaty laugh. Not  _HIS_  laugh, thank god. Merely a parody, an impression.

Jason looks up to see a group of five Jokerz blocking his path. One in the center has bright yellow hair and a pink suit, but still looks oddly like the Original, the inspiration for these pathetic crime groups. His black-rimmed eyes are open wide and he toys with a— Jason almost laughs at the irony— crowbar, painted white and purple.

"Awwwwe, somebody doesn't look very happy, kids. I think we need to bring some cheer, don't you think so?" The lead gang member with the garish face-paint darts in front of Jason, a red traced grin stretching across his face. "Give us your money, friend, or things are going to get fuuuuuuunnnnnnnny!"

Jason grabs him by the throat before he can launch into another rhyme or pun.

"Let me tell you something." Jason is surprised how calm his voice sounds, how much like Bruce. "I'm  _not_  a stable person. And I have serious issues with clowns and crowbars." He eyes the lead Joker's weapon, making sure the yellow-haired boy gets a taste of his most dangerous glare. "So, if this gets physical, I can't promise you that you'll survive the night. Really, it's in your best interest to get away from me. Now."

Jason tosses the thug sideways, purposefully hitting his hand against the clown's windpipe just for good measure. The Jokers watch, eyes wide, as their leader coughs and hacks, his eyes scrunched tight as he fights to regain his breath.

He finally stops and glares at Jason. It's the glare of an amateur, but there's still enough menace behind it that Jason knows this kid will end up in the emergency room tonight, most probably in critical condition. Stupid, stupid Jokerz.

"Get him!" The clown cries. The rest of the gang hesitates only briefly before they attack.

Jason grins.

**.**

Bruce Wayne sits in the cave, Ace lying quietly at his feet. The reports pour in— the band of Jokerz admitted to the Gotham City Hospital, the T-Gang stopped from an attempted rape (seven broken legs), an electronic store robbery earlier tonight foiled (an arm snapped and one thief who almost bled out before the paramedics arrived).

With the exception of the Jokerz, who are too scared to say much besides that 'he was just some guy' who was crazy (really truly  _crazy_ they insisted seemingly without irony) no one can say much about the shadowed man who came out of the dark to confront them. The news programs are giving the credit to Batman.

(Wayne knows, of course. Knows that the style is different than Terry's. Rougher, more severe. Plus, Terry went home early to study for a test, after stopping a kidnapping and saving a young man from a fire. Nothing to sneeze at, nothing at all).

Commentators praise the Batman, saying he is cleaning up the city. They politely ignore the severity of the violence in these new attacks. No one was killed, so all is forgiven in the eyes of the press. No one is frightened of Batman. Not like they used to be.

For a brief moment, Bruce Wayne allows himself to wonder how right his second soldier might actually be. Then he stops, mentally shaking himself. Ace looks up at his master and whimpers. The old dog can see that his master is brooding more than usual. Wayne smiles minutely and pats his canine friend on the head. "No worries, old chum," he whispers.

The screen of the Bat Computer flickers to life as the suit— the Batsuit, Terry's suit— goes live. "Terry? What's going on."

"Wayne, something blew up at the Modern Art Museum. I could see the explosion from Max's."

The news reports flash red with updates as Terry speaks. Bruce ignores them and pulls up the Gotham City Prison records. "Mad Stan was released this week. And his accounts show massive activity over the past few days."

"Well, that answers that question," Terry grumbles into the radio. "I'm on it!"

Bruce barely hears the faint chime of the Bat Computer reporting 'new message' over Terry's rockets. But he does still hear it, and it makes his fists clench.

Only a few people have ever known how to send messages directly to the Bat Cave computer, and most have been dead for years. Bruce Wayne glares at the message briefly, as if its existence was a personal insult to him, before opening it.

'HEY, POPS— HOPE THE NEW KID IS BETTER THAN HE SEEMS. FOR EVERYONE'S SAKE.'

Bruce doesn't have time to react before there's the sound of another explosion and a scream rips through the Cave, amplified by the computer speakers.

"Terry!" The video screen crackles with interference. Batman gives a slight moan, but no words. "Terry! TERRY!"

There is the sound of something cracking, like a bat hitting a baseball just right, before the connection goes completely black.

.

The fire tears through Terry's body like a riptide of pain, the force of the explosion ripping through his suit. Man, he hadn't even touched down on the rooftop yet...

He hits the ground with a groan and, for a moment, he can't see a thing. Even without sight, though, he's pretty sure that what just struck him across the face was the side of Mad Stan's army boot.

"You think I wouldn't be ready for you this time, Batman! You think I didn't have enough imagination to plan ahead!"

"Well, now that you mention it," Terry tries to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled gasp and a painful cough.

"That's the problem with society! There's no standard for imagination! Everything we can dream has already been done! The artistic world has a plexiglass ceiling! And no one can break through!"

Terry can feel the suit sparking, the naked red wires hot and damaged. Not good.

The veins on Mad Stan's neck are bulging with excitement and fury. "And the only solution to this impasse is..."

"Gee," Terry wheezes, "let me guess."

"BLOW IT ALL UP!"

Terry can't move his right arm, and he's not sure if its because of the suit, or if something is very, very broken. Either way, something else officially 'not good.' Stan grabs the front of the Batman costume, hauling Terry into the air. Every part of Terry's spine screams in protest (and a bit of his own scream seems to pathetically escape out of his mouth).

"But first, Bat-freak, I'm going to take care of you! You're on the side of the capitalist, information-whoring fascists, man! Which means you need to be scrap!"

Terry still can't move. He twitches his fingers, trying to move his arm enough to grab a batarang, a gas pellet,  _something_. But between the pain, the broken suit, and Stan's grip— it looks pretty grim. He hears the loud 'click' of Stan releasing a hand-held explosive from his belt, and Terry knows from past battles what kind of range that kind of fire-power has. And he knows that, even if Stan gives him room, he's in no shape to get that far away.

This sucks. Really, really fucking sucks. Of all the ways to go, Terry hates that it's MAD goddamn STAN that finally gets him. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, waiting for...

The zing of a batarang is a very distinctive sound, and for a moment Terry thinks he just hallucinated it— before Stan yelps and drops him. He hits the art gallery's rooftop with a not-too-satisfying 'smack' as Stan stumbles backward, black eyes darting into the night, looking for a logical answer for the attack.

He gets one in the form of a kick to the head, a blur of black and red and glinting silver. Loud, cracking punches and sharp elbows fly, beating Mad Stan down and back.

Terry groans and looks up, bleary eyed, at his savior.

It's a man in a plain red helmet, that much he can tell. The guy's clothes look like something out of either an old horror movie or an S&M store—under a dark colored duster, leather straps criss-cross over black kevlar, keeping knives, hooks, guns, and oddly shaped shuriken easily in arms reach.

The red helmet dodges one of Stan's monstrous punches and counters with an upper-cut of his own, followed by a spinning kick that pins the hulking terrorist against the roof's 'Emergency Exit' stairwell.

The stranger's black gloved hands immediately extract two knives from his costume and stab them deep into Stan's shoulders—first the right, then the left—essentially pinning him to the wall. Stan screams. Loudly.

"Oh, you don't like that?" The sound of sarcasm isn't muddled at all by the helmet. The voice, the sheer amusement clear in it, makes Terry shiver as he tries (and fails) to push himself up again. "Hmm. You probably should have thought of that before you started picking on poor defenseless art museums and a superhero dressed up like a rodent." The man gives an exaggerated shrug and pats Stan patronizingly on the side of the head. "Now you just hang on here a minute. I'm not finished with you yet, but I've got something to clear up with the kid."

Stan just groans as the man in the helmet walks away from him and towards the young Batman, still sparking red, in pain, and lying on the rooftop. Black combat boots stop just inches from the cowl's ears and Terry looks up to see the man offering a leather gloved hand. "You okay? No serious damage?"

Terry grunts and tries to act suitably 'Batman' as he grabs the offered arm and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. "I'm fine. Who are you?"

"Red Hood. And you sure you're basically fine? Any broken bones in your face? Internal bleeding?"

"No." Terry pokes at the red wires on his chest and grimaces. "Maybe a broken arm, but mostly just a few burns and a busted suit, I think."

"Oh. Okay. In that case..." Terry looks up as the man in the helmet trails off—and is met with a punch to the face, followed by a second to his stomach. He dodges a third, stumbling backwards.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're..." Terry starts to yell, at the same time Red Hood screams, "What the _hell_ were you thinking!"

Terry freezes in confusion. "What?"

"Rushing in here with guns half-cocked! You didn't even have what looked like a semblance of a plan, and—trust me, kid—you're not nearly good enough to do that. Not yet. I mean,  _Jesus_!" The voice sounds surprisingly petulant, almost whiney. "Where did you learn to swoop in wide like that, anyway? Definitely not from the old man, that's for sure. You're totally open for attack—vulnerable." Red Hood's hands are balled into fists and he's nearly shaking with anger.

"Listen," Terry half-coughs and half-growls, "I don't know who the hell you think you are..."

The man answers by kicking his foot onto Terry's right arm and pushing. The action shoots a wave of pain (yep, that arm's broken) through Terry, causing him to gasp and fall to his knees.

"I'm the guy saving your ass! Now, I'm going to finish with Stan and you better just sit there really still— before I have to do some  _real_  damage to make you." Terry clutches his shoulder and grit his teeth as Red Hood makes his way back to Mad Stan, pulling another (longer, sharper,  _dangerous_ ) knife out of a crisscross of leather straps.

"You know, Stan, hurting Batman is really just not cool. But I would be totally willing to let you off with just a little roughing up—heck, I partook in the fun myself—if it wasn't for the fact that I did a little checking around today. You've been a busy boy, haven't you?"

Mad Stan growls, eyes glazed over in pain and hate, but the Red Hood continues on before he can respond.

"You set up those bombs all over Gotham practically as soon as you got out of prison. The World Gallery, the Museum of Digital Art, the Foundation Art Museum... pretty fast work. Too bad your work wasn't thorough." The man grabs Stan's right hand and drives the knife straight into his palm. Stan screams, yells "WHAT ARE YOU—?" and starts to thrash.

"I mean, you didn't check to see exactly when these places were all going to be empty, did you Stan? You just charged forward, hell bent on causing as much destruction as possible. It didn't matter to you that the World Gallery had," Red Hood twists the knife, "five whole bus-loads of  _kids_  visiting on a field trip." He twists the knife again.

"AH! WHAT THE FUCK MAN! THAT'S MY TRIGGER HAND!"

"Oh, gee, really?" That sarcasm again, laced so very eerily with amusement. "And here I was trying to damage the useless hand. My mistake."

The knife moves, slices, severs. The blood gushes and flows, pooling on the rooftop like a concentrated rain.

"No..." Terry's eyes widen and his body starts to move, rushing forward as much as he can.

Red Hood immediately pulls a gun out of his holster and shoots at Terry's feet— Terry dodges, but only barely and his muscles definitely remind him that he probably can't do that again.

"I told you to stay right where you were,  _Batman_." There's a laugh in the man's voice when he says Terry's name, like its some sort of joke. He turns back to Stan, gun still trained on the center of Terry's cowl.

"See, Stan, I have this pretty fucking big issue with people hurting kids. And if I hadn't been able to disarm the bombs, you'd be all kinds of dead right now. But since it all worked out," the hand gives one more twist, and then a pull. Terry doesn't think he's ever heard a scream so loud. "I'll settle for knowing that you'll never make another mistake like that. Ever. Again." Red Hood wipes off his knife and slips it back onto his suit. Then he pulls out a small, black cell phone and presses the top button. "I've just sent a message to the police. They'll come get you. And you'll be fine... mostly. The nerves in your right arm are severed. You'll probably never get feeling back there. Learn to cope."

Terry slowly rises to his feet as the Red Hood approaches him, gun still carefully aimed. "And you, kid... you need to wise-up. Fast."

"Yeah, somehow I feel like taking life advice from someone who just crippled..."

"...a criminal who has proven time and time again that he's not going to reform. In fact, he was getting worse. Bolder. Get a clue, kid!" Sirens start to become audible in the distance and Red Hood cocks his head, his white eye-lenses shimmering.

"Tell the old man I'll be stopping by. Soon." He holsters his gun, quickly dodging out of the way when Terry takes the opportunity to go for a head-strike. Laughter echoes inside the helmet "Take it easy! You're in no condition to fight me—not right now. Don't worry, though, we'll have a rematch I'm sure."

The stranger gives a small salute and pulls an old-fashioned (God, back from the early Batman days—fucking classic) grapple-gun from his belt. "By the way, I also owe you pizza and a beer or something. You did good work with the Joker. Really, you should be proud."

With that, the gun sparks, the grapple flies, and the man swings away—looking so much like old videos of Bruce, the Hood's duster even billowing at the back like a cape, that it's freaky.

Terry wants to check on Mad Stan, to fix everything that's just happened somehow. But his suit is broken and still sparking, and the sirens are a lot closer. So, instead—giving an apologetic frown to the bleeding man still pinned to the stairs—he calls the car and punches the orders back to the cave.

 _[Terry!]_ Bruce's voice on the car comm is sharp with anger and worry.  _[What happened? Are you okay?]_

"Yeah. Just shway," Terry sighs. "But we seriously need to talk."


	3. Ages

"Ah!" Terry grimaces and instinctively tries to pull his arm away. "That hurts!" 

"It's either this or a cast," Bruce Wayne growls, tightening the exosuit arm bridge across Terry's bicep. "At least this you can probably manage to hide from your mother."

"Yeah. She's been pretty busy with work, so she probably won't notice if I'm wearing a baggier jacket for awhile. A cast, though— man, she'd kill me. Well,  _you_  first, then me." Terry bites his lip and winces again as the metal clasp tightens around his broken arm.

"That should hold," Bruce mutters, glaring skeptically at Terry's arm, as if it is going to attack at any moment. Bruce looks like that often— constantly braced for a fight. "You don't need to keep it entirely out of water, but don't drench it. And be careful how you move it; your arm needs to heal."

"No problem." Terry wiggles his fingers experimentally. His arm feels sore, but not unbearably so. "So... I'm assuming I met Jason. That's his name, right? Or should I call him the Red Hood?"

Bruce puts away the spare exosuit parts with a scowl and doesn't respond. Terry frowns, but he knows how to deal with moods like this—charge ahead and annoy the old Bat until he gets some answers.

"Moves pretty fast for a guy who has to be, what, in his—what, fifties? Sixties? At the youngest? Pretty limber." Terry shifts his weight, wincing in pain as the movement bothers his shoulder. "Vicious too." Terry glares at the back of Bruce's neck, waiting. Nothing. Just silence. "Seriously? You're not giving me anything?"

"You're arm should be healed in a few weeks. By then,  _Jason_  will be out of Gotham."

"How can you be so sure?"

The look Bruce gives is pure Batman, cold and cruel, telling him loud and clear not to ask any more questions. Terry curses to himself silently—he still hasn't mastered that look. "Go home and rest up. You can use this time off to catch up with your girlfriend."

Terry raises an eyebrow, half-laughing. "You really don't listen to anything I say on the comm, do you?" Bruce remains silent, but his posture is open, slightly curious. "Dana and I broke up last month. Remember? I ranted about it for days! Max stopped cutting into the feed because she was so sick of it."

"I listen when you talk about something relevant." Bruce shrugs, looking for a moment like the elderly playboy that most of Gotham thinks of him as. "And it's not that difficult. Use this time to make up with her. Buy her flowers, take her out to dinner. Given how often you two seem to break up, she should be used to this by now."

"No, this time it's... well, it's different," Terry sighs, his face flushed. "I majorly screwed up."

"Oh?" Bruce's voice is flat as he picks his cane up from beside the Bat-computer.

"Yeah. I stood her up... on her birthday. It was right after The Royal Flush Gang went on their all-night spree and I'd been up for 48 hours. I totally spaced and forgot about Dana. Slept right through dinner. Slag... she waited at Don Sinclare's for something like five hours." Terry sighs, even the memory of it all making his chest ache worse than his arm. "Any advice, Mr. Playboy?"

There is only silence in the cave. Terry looks up to see an unreadable look on Wayne's face. "You forgot her birthday?"

"Basically. Yeah. So... any advice?"

"No."

"What? Seriously?"

Wayne shakes his head. "I memorize the security files of any woman I ever go on a date with. Trust me, the last thing I'd ever do is forget a birthday. Even if I wanted to." Bruce's grin is bitter and he is looking at Terry as if he is something foreign and strange. "Not your finest moment, McGinnis. But probably better in the long-run. You don't need any more distractions than you already have."

"Yeah, yeah..." Terry waves the comment off with his good arm. "She's dating some guy who goes to Gotham U right now. Science major or something. Nice guy— I met him at the Juice Bar once."

"Hmm." Wayne has clearly stopped listening now and is cleaning up the excess exosuit parts. "Make sure you rest while your arm is healing. I need you in top form when you put the suit back on." Bruce shuffles toward the stairs, his face hidden by shadows again.

"So that's it then? We're still not going to talk about..."

"Goodnight, Terry," Bruce growls before shutting the clock-covered door. Terry sits on the med-table, his chest still bare. He shivers.

"Slag it..." Terry carefully changes into a loose pair of slacks and pulls on a spare shirt, all the while listening for Wayne's soft footsteps or cane scrapes announcing his return to the cave. Nothing.

"Guess I've got nothing to lose," he sighs, walking over to Wayne's chair. "Computer—search for files on 'The Red Hood.'"

_[CONFIRMED.]_

Terry watches as information spills out in front of him— information about old mob bosses and chemical plants. Information spanning over decades, most of it seemingly irrelevant.

"Uh... okay. Computer, search in file for the name Jason."

The computer hums quietly for a few moments.  _[_ _Match not found_ _.]_

"What?" That was what the guy's name was, right? Gordan had said so, and Bruce's non-answer pretty much confirmed it. But then... it wasn't so much a hood as a helmet. "Um, cross reference 'Jason' and 'Red Helmet'...?"

_[Match not found.]_

"Red Mask?"

_[Match not found.]_

"Leather Dude? S&M Man?"

_[Match not found.]_

Terry groans and plops down in the old man's black leather chair. "Well, isn't that just perfect..." He leans his head back, closing his eyes for a few moments and trying to will any more information he can use into his brain. But there's nothing... Terry starts to think about his history test next week, then about his mom's birthday and what to get her, then his mind wanders to Max's talk just yesterday about re-dying her hair a different color and Terry wonders what that might be, and his head feels heavier and the chair comfier, like he could fall... asleep...

**.**

The sound of a crash and Ace barking furiously causes Terry to jump to his feet, his whole body tense. Without a second's thought, he bolts up the stairs to the mansion, his mind full of memories of spray-painted laughter and joker gas.

The library is empty and it sounds like the barking is coming from the front hall. As Terry nears the entry way, he stops short. Hanging over the stairs—upside-down by his legs, trying desperately to stay out of the reach of a very angry Ace's jaws— is the Red Hood.

Terry's hand immediately goes for his belt, momentarily forgetting that he is in his street clothes and without a batarang in sight. He tenses, looking around the study for anything he can use as a weapon, ready to dart in guns figuatively blazing when Red Hood groans, "Jesus Christ! A little help here?"

For a moment, Terry thinks the man is talking to him, until a voice from the main entry's shadows says, "Ace. Down boy."

Ace whimpers and runs over to his master, brushing up against the old man's legs protectively. As Wayne hobbles forward, Terry slinks back into the shadows, watching silently. If things get ugly, it'd be nice to get a drop on Red Hood using the element of surprise—as far as he can tell, neither man has noticed him yet.

Red Hood unhooks his legs and back flips over the banister. "Well now, I feel pretty stupid." As the Red Hood lands, his posture is casual and comfortable, one hip slung to the side with his hands perched loosely on either side of his waist. Terry notices that his costume is missing the duster now, and it seems like his weapons arsenal is lighter as well. It seems almost like a strange kind of peace treaty.  

"You know," the Red Hood's voice inside the helmet is the faint echo of a surprisingly friendly laugh. "I was fucking proud of myself, getting through all your flashy, expensive security. How the hell was I supposed to guess that you had a fucking attack dog? I mean, seems like your kind of mutt and all— seriously,  _real_  charming— but last time I checked, you hated pets. I mean, you kept that kitten Selina gave you for, what, like a week? And that thing was the cutest..."

"I thought I told you to never wear that mask in my house."

Bruce's voice is sharp and like ice. And just like that, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees in the manor's front hall. Terry sees the lines of Red Hood's body tighten and tense, and suddenly he doesn't look calm at all. He looks like a tiger ready to strike. There is no question in Terry's mind—he looks like a murderer.

Terry braces, ready to rush forward and attack if Red Hood makes a move for Bruce. But instead the man reaches with both hands behind his head and there is a loud hissing sound.

The red helmet is literally chucked, thrown full force at Bruce's feet. The result is a loud clang that echoes through the hall. "There. Are you happy now?"

Terry can't breath. Hell, can barely think.

He was expecting someone younger looking than 60—the man moved too fast to be older than Tim Drake—but even if he was immortal, like Jason Blood, or revived like the possessed (and creepy) Talia al Guhl, Terry was expecting  _some_  sign of age. Even when Bruce had been rejuvenated by the Lazarus Pit, Terry remembers the white streaks in his hair.

But the man standing at the foot of the Wayne Manor steps looks like he's barely pushing mid-twenties and even that seems generous. Without the red mask, the young man is swaddled in black, the leather of his costume the same tone as his black hair, which is mostly slicked back, all except for one stray hair cutting across his forehead. His eyes are a wild greenish-blue and crackling with anger.

"I'll be happy when you stop killing people in  _my_  city."

Jason snorts. "Not your city anymore, Bruce."

Bruce's voice is rough and deep—Batman's voice. "Gotham is always my city. I may not be young enough to be out there in person, but she'll always be mine."

Jason smiles a half-bitter smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "See, you should have taken my route. Too much time spent around ancient evil magics, mystical swords, and Lazarus Pits. Whether you want to or not, you can leap rooftops forever." The Red Hood shrugs casually, but his lips are pursed in a harsh line that betrays his anger. As he turns his head, Terry can see thin loops of silver and black wire stitched into the curve of Jason's ear—a popular style with neo-punks recently. "And, as for the guy at the warehouse, he deserved it and you know it. Look up his file. He raped three little girls, Bruce..."

"You should have let the police—"

"...and the DA had plenty of evidence to bury him alive. But the cops didn't file their reports right and so he walked, free as a bird. These were _kids_ , Bruce! I don't hesitate over that one." Jason's blue eyes shadow with anger as he grits his teeth. Then a chuckle escapes from the Red Hood's throat, deep and mirthless. "Jesus, I can't believe we're still having the same argument, decades later. At least we're consistent, old man."

Bruce is silent and cold for a moment. "Why are you here, Jason?"

And, all of a sudden, Jason smiles. A real smile. A sky and sunshine kind of smile that briefly reminds Terry of his little brother Matt last time they had gone to the Gotham County Fair together. "Because the Joker's dead again, you idiot. How could I not come by and throw a little party in celebration?" The smile disappears as suddenly as it had materialized. "And because I talked to Babs and she said the kid was good. I can't stress that enough.  _Good_ —not great."

"What his skills are," Bruce growls, "is not your concern."

"Oh, fuck you! That's bullshit, and you know it! Even Babs agrees, and everyone else would too, that if it's  _anyone's_  concern, it's mine!" Jason takes a deep breath and folds his arms tightly against his chest. "I've been watching him. Babs is right—he's good. But do you have any idea how many open shots there were? Head shots even. And these were mostly thugs and low-level hacks that you and I could have taken down in five minutes max. I can only imagine what would happen if one of the big guns decides to try and pick off the Justice League one by one. Sure, the suit can protect him from a direct shot with a gun, but they may bring something else. Say..." Jason's eyes flash wickedly, "maybe a crowbar. Or a sword. Or a power-drill."

Terry sees Bruce flinch and it's an odd sight, something that doesn't belong in Batman's range of motions.

"Face it, Bruce," Jason continues, "the kid shouldn't be on the street right now, and I know that better than anybody! He. Is. Going. To. Get. Himself. Killed."

Bruce is silent for a few moments, and Terry feels his chest tighten with unease. Finally Wayne responds, "He held his own against both Mr. Freeze and the Joker. That's nothing to sneeze at, as you well know."

"Oh, gee willikers," Jason coos sarcastically. "Well, if he could fight a whopping  _two_  undead super villains, I suppose he's ready for anything then, huh?" Blue eyes tear away from Bruce's face and trail over to the study doorway. Jason smiles that sarcastic, bitter smile of his. "Why don't we ask him?"

Terry winces; apparently he isn't as quiet as he thinks he is. He steps carefully out of the shadows and gives the young man his most determined stare.

And then the worst thing Terry could imagine happens—the man who calls himself the Red Hood begins to laugh.

"No. Fucking. Way!" Jason gasps for breath between hoots, his body doubling over, his eyes tearing up, his right hand slapping his knee. "Oh my God, Bruce, it's official. You are seriously, seriously fucked up. I mean..." the black-haired man walks over to Terry and slips an arm around his shoulders. Terry stiffens nervously as the other man presses against his back, his chin resting casually on Terry's shoulder. "Dick and I could have been a coincidence. And Tim is just, well, fucking Tim. And Damien was your actual son, sure. But this kid," Jason reaches and pinches Terry's cheek as if he were a small child, "officially crosses the line between 'strangely similar' and 'freaky, narcissistic old-man kink.' I mean, seriously—slim, black hair, blue eyes... starting a harem here, pops?"

Terry growls deep in his throat. Before Red Hood can move, Terry wrenches away and spins into a sidekick, his right foot slamming into the man's jaw. Jason stumbles back, clearly stunned for a moment, before he rushes forward and grabs Terry's broken arm—  _hard_.

"You do not want to go a round with me, junior."

"You want to bet on that?"

"Oh please. You're broken enough as it is— let's wait until you're healed before I kick your ass."

"Stop it. Both of you," Wayne snaps. His voice is rough and he's Batman again, but its clearly a tired, weary Batman. "You've made your point, Jason."

Red Hood stares at Bruce for a few moments before nodding. He lets go of Terry's arm, smirking a bit when he sees Terry wince, and walks back up the stairs to the open manor window. "I'll watch Gotham while the kid gets better. And don't worry—it'll be clean. I'll respect your rules for now. Out of respect for the name."

Wayne stares at Jason solemnly. "If its not..."

"I know." Jason fixes his eyes on Terry.

"And then you'll leave Gotham." Bruce's voice is hard, deep, and determined. Full Batman-voice.

Jason seems unaffected, his lips twitching into a half-smirk. "We'll see. Until next time, junior."

Terry raises and eyebrow and gestures at the red helmet lying on the floor. "Don't you need that?"

Jason looks at Bruce instead of Terry, his eyes sharp and bitter. "You can keep it for the trophy room..." Jason trails off, his eyes still glued to old man Wayne. For a moment, the younger looking man seems like he's going to say something. But Wayne's eyes are cold and his jaw is set.

Terry sees something that looks like pain flash in both men's eyes as the Red Hood slips out the window without another word.


	4. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor spoiler warning for the 'Batman Beyond: Hush' comic arc

Years ago, he had to learn to block out that uncomfortable itch on the back of his neck when people walked up behind him—had to learn to force down the urge to spin backwards and force them into an arm-lock, to kick their legs out from under them, to volley them over to Batman for the final blow. After all, now he is in the "real world," and has the beer-belly to show for it he realizes, and workers have to come up behind him all the time on the satellite field.

But sometimes that itch is stronger, more real than the circuitry lying out before him. Like that day he found the "New Boy" perched above his head. Like now... someone is watching him like a trained hawk, burrowing holes with their eyes. Something...

"Hey, Drake! Someone here to see you!"

 _Bingo_. "I'm a bit busy here. Tell whoever it is that they can wait."

"Uh, okay—but it's the boss' errand boy..."

Tim Drake freezes and pulls his safety mask off as he turns around. For some reason, in the back of his mind he is expecting to see the cowl, with its shadowed face and white eyes. Instead, Terry McGinnis stands behind him with bright blue eyes, a fake smile, and two cups of coffee.

"The boss send you to pick my brain?" Drake grins as if it's a joke and not shameful clawing for information. He's used to dealing with Bats, but not during broad daylight, and not when the Bat in question is seemingly playing hooky from high school.

"Something like that," Terry half shrugs, clearly favoring his left arm. "I brought a bribe." He gestures to the coffee, smirking.

Drake nods, understanding. "I guess I can take a short break. Come on in to my office."

The walk across the fields is silent, with Terry's smile looking more and more forced by the second. When they are finally inside Drake's workstation, and Drake has gestured that security is up and running, Terry's smirk finally morphs fully into the scowl that had been hiding there. "I need your help."

"I gathered. I also assume that the old man knows nothing about this. You being out of uniform and all."

"Yeah, that's right."

"Hm." Drake sips his coffee and studies Terry quietly. "What happened to your arm?"

Terry winces. "Broke it. Last week. I'm off-duty until it heals." The kid sighs and rubs his eyelids. Drake would guess that the kid's barely been getting four hours of sleep a night since he's become Batman, but this looks like something more. He knows the feeling—the case you just can't crack. That villain that's just good enough...

Terry looks up. "Is there any reason for the old man to  _not_  have a file on someone? Someone from the old days. Like, someone big."

Tim cocks his head. Well, this  _is_  different... "No. Bruce has files on everyone, big or small. He had files on Arkham inmates' little old aunties, not to mention thorough files on every League member and every player in Gotham. Anything you need to know, he should have. He was... thorough in that way."

Terry snorts. "You mean obsessive."

Tim Drake shrugs. "You're talking to the kettle here, kid. Calling the pot black would just be redundant." He looks over Terry quickly, trying to guess before asking. No bite marks, so not Killer Croc. No burns or major magic scars visible. Joker, Bane, Freeze, and Ra's are all already out of the picture... "Okay, I give up. Who can't you find information on?"

"Someone named Jason. The Red Hood."

Tim Drake feels himself tensing, memories of youth creeping into his muscles like an electric spasm. "Oh. Well. I guess Bruce  _would_  hide those files, now wouldn't he?" Drake shakes his head. "Fucking hell. Is he the one out patrolling?"

"Yeah."

Drake winces. "Holy shit... now that's... wow. I can't believe Bruce is allowing that. Jesus. He still look not a day over twenty five?"

"Something like that."

Tim snorts. "Lucky bastard. Never say gifts go to the most deserving. Though I suppose he put in his dues. Ancient evils and the league of assassins... Jason never played it clean or safe. I suppose you get something for that. Though blessing or a curse, hell if I know. I wouldn't want to keep fighting like that. Not for, God, must be going on forty years... takes a special kind of person to have that much drive for the fight. That much passion to try and change the world. And that much anger." Tim shakes his head, eyes glassed over. "Someone like Bruce, I suppose."

Terry stays silent, but his eyes have narrowed. Waiting.

Drake shakes himself out of his memory, forcing a small smirk. "Okay, trust me, there is a file on Jason. Like I said, Bruce has a file on everyone. But there are a few files that are... sensitive enough information that he's set up a computer trap, a kind of firewall, to keep anyone but him out. You have to enter a personal pass-code first, then give voice recognition, and then you can get into the files. Basically, you're not in unless Batman wants you in."

Terry groans. "Slag it! And since Wayne seems to think that sharing information with me is a Blackgate level crime..." Terry's arm swings, like he wants to punch something, but the damaged bone holds him back as he winces noticeably. "And I don't suppose you can give me much more information than 'it's complicated,' right?"

Drake raises an eyebrow. Ah, those were probably Babs words, ever one to stay out of conflict with Bruce if she could.

"Actually, I can do quite a bit better than that." Drake flicks a switch on his personal computer, making the processor speed up and excess programs temporarily shut down. "I helped set up the BatCave's security system, kid. Which means, I can get you access to those files. But the old big bad Bat is going to know I was there, which means I'm going to get hell for it, and I'm not going to lie for you 'cause Bruce is already watching every move I make in case I ever morph back into a host for the Joker. So, basically..." Drake looks at Terry, eyes sharp—Robin eyes. "Is it worth it?"

Terry is silent a moment. "Yes."

Drake nods, a grim smile on his face. "Okay then. Just give me a second."

_**.** _

Max chews on a handful of popcorn thoughtfully as she flips through her Advanced Biochemistry textbook, trying desperately not too appear as bored with her work as she is. It's only been five minutes, she realizes, but she asks again, "Any luck there, Terry?"

"Hnhmm."

God, she would give anything for Terry to let her take a look at the Bat-Computer files—just the coding even! But Terry said Tim Drake is pretty firm that they're sensitive info, which meant that Terry still has to at least clear it before bringing his trusty non-sidekick in.

But Terry's fingers stopped moving on the keys a few minutes ago. Now, he's just staring, a bit wide-eyed and strange, at the notebook screen.

"Ter? What's up?" Max doesn't wait for an answer before she slides across the couch and looks over her best-friend's shoulder. There are photographs displayed on the screen—only medium to poor quality, like something taken back when film was still in use, but still clear enough to make out. In each picture is the same boy, about 13 or 14, with wavy black hair and blue eyes. In one picture he's wearing a PIXIES tee-shirt and ripped jeans, glaring at the camera as if it had personally insulted him. In another, he's grinning a smug, shit-eating grin and flipping the camera off. Another is a candid shot, catching the boy looking at a music pamphlet with a soft, wistful look, while chewing on the side of a ballpoint pen. "Is that... is that the Red Hood?"

"Yeah," Terry breaths. "Almost fifty years ago."

"Huh. Looks like a bratty kid. Who was he, anyway?"

Terry's eyes don't leave the screen and Max wonders for a moment if something's wrong, if Terry's been hit with some sort of spell or hypnotized or something. But instead he finally answers, almost reverently— "He was Robin."

_**.** _

Jason grins at the satisfying crunch of broken bone as the Jokerz member howls in pain, clutching his shoulder. This is his sixth bust of the night and his blood is roaring and he's just fucking getting started. A sidekick to the knee of another grease-painted thug—another loud cracking noise. The rest of the group bolts, a few of them cradling arms with severed ligaments or faces with shallow, but bloody cuts.

But no one dead—for whatever else Bruce can say about him, Jason keeps his word. Until the kid gets better anyway.

He flicks on his helmet's radio, tuning through police channels for useful information. He's high on Gotham violence and is sure there's plenty more out there, waiting. His radio gives a beep, a crackle...

_[Hey, how's the old city?]_

Jason tenses, growling under his breath. "Where did you come from?"

_[Around.]_

"Hm. Taking lessons from Babs or something?"

_[Hey, I don't need to be a super-genius hacker to find your radio transmission. You're using police frequencies and I used to be a policeman. Not exactly mysticism here, Todd. ]_

Jason snorts into the receiver, shooting his grappling line over to the nearest rooftop. "Okay, fine. So what do you want?"

_[Just checking up. Got a call from Tim. Heard you were visiting him. And patrolling no less.]_

"Yeah. Just until the new brat heals. You met him yet?"

_[Yes. He's... not terrible. Gave a Cadmus Nightwing-clone a decent run around anyway.]_

Jason rolls his eyes and nearly misses a T-gang looting an electronics shop. Hallelujah. "I'll take that praise with a truck load of salt. Cadmus isn't exactly known for their bug-less experiments."

_[Jason—]_

"Hold on a sec!" He makes the bust as loud as possible for his "brother's" benefit. Knife slashes, arm breaking, glass smashing— the works. By the time everyone is unconscious, Jason is breathing hard and there is silence on his radio. "Dick? Dickie-bird?"

_[I'm here.]_

"Oh. Thought old age had made you squeamish or something."

_[He's not going to thank you, you know.]_

Jason is silent a moment. "Yeah? Who's that?"

_[Bruce. He's stubborn and set in his ways. I know you're trying to help the kid out in your own way, but he's not going to see it that way. Gotham is his territory, always will be. To him, you're—]_

"Just some trespassing vigilante?"

_[No. I was just saying...]_

"I got over the Bat-issues awhile ago, Dick. No need to hand hold." Jason grits his teeth and shoots his grapple gun out again—he needs to be flying for this conversation. The air was always one of the few places he could usually control his temper. Something about the wind.

"UGH!"A blast of wind, or  _something_ , hits Jason like a brick and he falls onto the familiar embrace of rooftop concrete. "What the fuck..."

_[Jason! Jason, are you okay? What happened? ]_

Jason coughs. "I don't know. Something hit me and..." A shrill, screaming sound rips through the air and Jason feels the same invisible brick wall slam into his chest. His radio hisses and cracks, fading in and out.

_[HSSSST... I'll get Ti... HSSSST ... he's got... HSSSSS... and he'll know... HSSST... just stay... HSSST...]_

Jason swallows a mouthful of blood and groans. "What...?"

A white, robot-like creature is walking toward him, a large blue orb rotating where a face should be. "Interesting. You're not the Batman."

"Gee," Jason wheezes, "what was your first clue?"

The white metal head tilts sideways and Jason is hit with another invisible blast. His ears are ringing for some reason, like they did after a loud concert when he was a kid.

"Okay, enough of the magic tricks!" Jason grabs two shuriken from a strap on his leg and hurls them at the thing in front of him. Another high pitch scream rings through the air, and the metal stars fall to the ground in paper-like pieces.

"Oh, no magic I assure you. Just science."

Jason growls and charges forward, knife in hand, but an invisible blast sends his weapon skittering across the roof and over the side.

"No, certainly not the Batman," the voice from the white metal clucks. "But interesting. Well then, let's see what you're made of."

Another blast, sharper than the rest and slightly angled, rips forward and Jason barely even has time to register the sound of his shattering helmet as he falls and his bare head hits the concrete with a deafening crack.

.

The boy on the screen sits alone on a small, grassy hill and smokes a cigarette. The camera zooms in until the boy turns, rolling his blue eyes dramatically.

_[[What are you doing, Alfred? It's my birthday, right. You guys said I could pick what I want to do, and I want to have a smoke without you and Bruce getting on my case!]]_

_[[Of course, Master Jason,]]_  a voice from off camera says. It's possible to hear the warmth that radiates from that voice—it's the sound of amusement and of love.  _[[But I thought it would be appropriate to capture the moment as evidence for the next time you suggest that we, quote, 'never let you do anything.']]_

The boy laughs and shakes his head.  _[[Well, fine, roll camera then!]]_  He turns toward the lens and makes a flirty, kiss-face.  _[[I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille_.]] After batting his eyelashes, the boy takes a long drag and proceeds to blow smoke rings, as if daring any future spectator to call him a novice. After a few more goofy faces and laughs between puffs, a voice can be heard off camera, calling everyone over for birthday cake.

It's Bruce's voice.

Terry freezes the video a stares intently at this young Jason's face. There's a spark in his eyes—a look of true happiness, a look of love and hope. It looks so much like something Terry had seen flicker across the man's face that night in Bruce's hallway, before it had dissolved into a bitter fury.

It's not exactly a look of a boy's love for his father; Terry knows that that looks like—he remembers seeing  _that_  look on Tim Drake's face when Bruce had come to see him in the hospital. But Jason's is not that kind of look. Jason's eyes here speak an entirely different language. It is rawer, hungrier. Almost lustful. It is, in Terry's opinion, strangely un-Robin-like.

"You done staring at that yet?" Max asks, waving the pre-calculus textbook before his face. "It's been, what, over an hour? And we  _are_  supposed to be studying you know."

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

The explosion hits before Terry has the time to finish closing the laptop. The building rocks and trembles. "What the hell?!"

Terry sprints to Max's window and scans the sky. "Slag it. No fire... just the sound of explosions..." Another eruption, like a small earthquake, rattles the windows and Terry frowns. "And pretty much no question about who's responsible. Max— you may have to help me suit up!"

.

Jason shakes his head, feeling shards from his helmet scrape his scalp and fall from his hair. "Fuck," he coughs, pushing himself up to stare again at his anonymous assailant. "Another broken helmet. You know I'm going to make you pay for that, right?"

The white, robot-like creature chuckles, his laugh echoing metallic under his mask. "You're welcome to try."

Jason just grins and grabs one of the light bombs from his belt and lunges forward. He darts low toward the creature's leg— ready to blind him with the light, then cripple him with a quick knife stab to the thigh, severing the  _rectus femoris_.

He doesn't get that far. And invisible force hits Jason again like a brick wall, and another series of shorter bursts slice at his arms and face like sword swipes. Another invisible punch gets him straight in the gut and makes him taste blood.

"That was brave. However, ultimately futile." A white arm rises away from the metallic body and, even though he didn't  _see_  anything happen, suddenly Jason can't move.

"What the..."

"Like it? This is something new that I developed. Not that you'd know; you don't seem to know enough to even appreciate my old inventions. I'll have to find Batman eventually—hopefully he'll appreciate the genius behind this." The blue orb of a face bends close to him and Jason can see his own reflection—angry and badly bruised. "You know, it used to be that I could only force the vibrations in a forward direction. But now I can vibrate them in place. I can use them to carry something. Or contain something." The white metal hand makes a tight fist and suddenly Jason feels walls pushing against his shoulders, pressing in against his chest. Soon, he's gasping desperately for air, unable to breathe. "Or crush something." There's that metallic laugh again.

The pressing stops for a moment, but doesn't reduce. Jason bites the inside of his mouth until he feels a bit of flesh tear away from the inside of his cheek—anything to stay conscious as the air is forced from his lungs. The metal hand grips his chin and tilts his face up. There is a soft, clicking sound—like tongue against teeth—inside the blue orbed face. "You do look like him. Blue eyes, dark hair... are you related to him?"

Jason can only make strangling sounds. As if on cue, the invisible walls recede until he can finally cough out, "Who?"

"The Batman. Are you related? It would be an odd coincidence, but it's scientifically plausible."

"Oh yeah," Jason spats. "Half-cousins, twice removed, on my mother's side."

The white and blue metal tilts, as if considering. "Are you trying to be funny or insult my intelligence?"

Jason flashes his favorite shit-eating grin. "Why discriminate—I like both options."

"I see. You're nothing more than a sardonic plebeian. And you're distracting me from finding the Batman. Well, I think I've humored you for long enough..." The white hand is positioned in front of Jason's face now, and the circle on the palm starts to vibrate, and a high pitched noise—like far away screaming—starts to whistle in his ears, and Jason closes his eyes for a moment and sees crowbars swinging on his eyelids and thinks, ' _This is it again_.'

And then the hero swoops in.

.

The Batman is quick and ferocious. He doesn't give Shriek even a moment to fire off one of his sonic blasts. An elbow to the unprotected side of his throat, a batarang in the sonic blaster of the left palm, and then another in the right. Claws extend from his gloves and he gouges out the circuitry from Shriek's chest plate. A swift side hook to the head sends the white and blue helmet flying and reveals a thin and grimacing silver-haired man underneath.

One more punch to the face is all it takes; Shriek collapses on the rooftop, faintly groaning.

Batman ties Shriek tightly with chord from his belt. The hero and the villain say nothing to each other, until the young Batman smirks grimly and pulls a small card from his belt. It's a playing card from a child's board game, clearly spelling out in black letters:  **"GO TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200."**

"Cute," Shriek says dryly.

Batman doesn't say anything. But his grin widens, as if to say, "Yeah, I thought it was."

When Batman finally does speak— to Jason now—his voice is rough and gravely, like Batman's should be. "You okay?"

Jason snorts. "Depends. My body's okay. Pride's a bit wounded, though."

Batman chuckles. "Don't worry about it. Took me awhile to figure out how to deal with Shriek's sound waves. And it's still hard if he gets a shot it—those blasts can disorient me for, like, ten minutes."

"Those were seriously sound waves?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. That's pretty hardcore."

"Dr. Shreeve actually worked in sound technology for Wayne Powers Inc. before he went all super-villain, if you can appreciate the irony."

"Hn," Jason shakes his head and feels something scrape inside his mouth. He spits out a mouthful of blood and broken tooth pieces. "Damn. That's going to take all night to heal."

Terry raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty fast."

"Yeah. Comes with the pretty face. I heal faster than most. Still hurts like a bitch, though."

Terry looks about to respond when GCPD sirens start to grow in the distance. "That's the cue. Let's get out of here."

"Wait." Jason grits his teeth and walks over to the tied up Dr. Shreeve. Before Batman can say a word, Jason shifts his hips and drives a sharp kick to Shreeve's face. Another downward punch follows and soon there's blood flecking Shreeve's face and Jason's glove. "There. Told you I'd make you pay for breaking my helmet, fucker."

"Just to let you know," Batman states flatly, "he can't hear you. He's deaf without his mask."

"No problem," Jason looks the man called Shriek in the eye and Shriek glares back, murderously. "I think he got the message."

.

As Terry follows the unmasked Red Hood— _Jason_ , his mind amends—through the night sky, he can't help but think of that sarcastic young boy from the videos. The former Robin is clearly in his element as he swings left on his old fashioned grappling hook, then lets go, diving head first into the neon-kissed expanse of an alleyway. Before Terry's breath has a chance to catch, Jason grabs a pipe with one hand and slides to brace his foot on a ledge. "Coming?"

Terry follows, feeling a little silly as he spreads his bright red wings and fires up his jets. But Terry rarely uses a grappler—the city's just not made for it anymore and the fact that Jason uses one, Terry's pretty sure, says just as much about his stubbornness as his skill.

Jason grins, cat-like, and ducks into the window that he had landed on. Without much hesitation, Terry follows.

The world inside the window looks like a fairly normal apartment, but one which is fairly cold and nearly empty. The walls are blank except for one series of projection monitors (all set up in a square formation, for optimum viewing possibilities) and various electronics—a VM-chip reader, a CD player, and two more contraptions that Terry can't identify. The only other furniture in the room is a black futon, already folded down flat and topped with crumpled sheets. The only sign of real life—besides a slight smell of needs-to-be-washed laundry—is a punching bag in the corner, a small castle of empty take-out boxes, a mini-fridge, and scattered pieces of computer parts on the floor.

"Home sweet home," Jason waves his hand loosely around the room. "I'd tell you to make yourself comfortable, but it's not exactly set up for, well, people." He walks over to the mini-fridge and pulls out a water bottle. He tosses one to Terry without looking and Terry catches it—thinking for half a second before remembering to use his good arm. Jason smirks as he twists open the top.

"So, there's no way you're healed enough that the old man let you out of the cage. So, what's up?"

Terry shrugs, trying to look casual and yet heroic. "Saw the explosion. Had to come save your ass." Terry flashes a wild grin before forcing his face to turn serious again. "Injured or not, it's still my city."

Jason snorts. "Nice. You even have the bat-lingo down. Exo-arm on the left?"

"Yeah. It bulges out a bit. It was a bitch getting the suit on."

"And it's going to be even worse getting it off. Especially if you don't want to mess your arm up even more than you have. The old man will be able to ease you through it... if you want to tell him you've been fighting the good fight without his permission anyway."

Terry shoots the best bat-glare he can manage Jason's way, but can't keep it up for long. Jason's just too... likable. At least Terry thinks so, but Terry has been hanging out with riffraff and juvee rejects since he was twelve, so what does he know? He sighs and pulls off his mask, shaking his hair out immediately—he hates cowl-hair.

"And suggestion two?"

Jason smirks, but there isn't any malice in it this time—just a bit of curiosity. "Come here."

Terry tries not to raise an eyebrow as he walks cautiously over to Jason. The former Robin slowly places his hands on Terry's shoulders and moves them slowly over the slick material of the suit. One hand pressed firmly against the injured arm, the other roaming with searching fingertips along his upper back and up his neck. Terry stifles a sigh. This felt... nice. Weird, but nice.

Jason suddenly frowns. "Kay, I give up. Where's the latch for this thing?"

"No latch," Terry half-laughs and half-coughs, trying hard to not let a blush hit his face in any obvious way. "There's a flap of fabric that you can pry loose and it acts as a zipper. The suit's circuitry just sort of knows that's when to shut off and open."

"No kidding? Old man's getting fancy." Jason walks around to face Terry's back and once again braced his hand on Terry's broken arm. "Ah, got it. Okay, don't tense up—I need your arm relaxed or this might injure it more." Terry feels Jason's left hand keep his shoulder in place as the suit ever-so-slowly peels away from his back. He reaches into the suit and peels the fabric away from Terry's right-side, coaxing his left arm out into the cold air. From there, Jason slowly rolls the fabric off of the left-arm's exo until Terry feels the last wisps of fabric slide from his fingers.

Jason sighs. "There. Now let me get you a change of clothes. I doubt you want to wander around Gotham half-naked in a bat suit."

"Wouldn't be my first choice," Terry admits. "Thanks."

"No prob." Jason shuffles through a pile of clothes on the floor, his brow creasing slightly. "Uh, I think these are pretty clean."

Terry takes the offered black tee and jeans with a smile—which fades into a tense line as Jason turns away, giving Terry some privacy to change. Terry just buttons the last button on Jason's jeans when he hears, "So, what happened to your dad?"

Terry's fingers slip, but otherwise he doesn't let his body react with anything more than a raised eyebrow. "Who said anything happened to him?"

"I did. No one gets into the Bat business if they have a healthy, well-adjusted family. Or if they do, then it doesn't stay that way for long... one way or another, there's got to be something your fighting for. And death is a great motivator. But—beyond that—I hacked into Wayne Tech and looked at your security file. Did you know you're listed as an 'intern'? Anyway, it only lists Wayne and your mom as your security contacts. No father. So… what happened?"

Terry closes his eyes for a moment before answering. "He used to work for Wayne Powers, back when Wayne's name was just on the company logo for show. Powers had my dad killed. Made it look like a gang of Jokerz did it."

"Jesus," Jason whispers. His voice sounds reverent, almost approving, as if Terry's answer has passed some sort of test.

"Yeah. Mom's still around though, and my little brother. Actually, if you take me out of the picture, they practically do have that healthy, well-adjusted family. Weird, huh?" Terry sighs and fingers the edge of the black shirt Jason had given him. "How about you? What happened to your parents?"

Jason snorts and seems to brush the comment away, but not before Terry can see a real, sharp pain flicker across his eyes. Jason seems to hesitate a moment. "Fucked off and died is the short answer. Maybe I'll tell you some other time."

Terry knows that he shouldn't feel so relieved that there  _will_  be another time... but he does. "Yeah? Okay. Maybe after that I'll tell you how I met the old man."

Jason laughs. "Not sure you can top my story in that department, junior."

Terry smiles. "Well, I guess we'll see won't we?"

Jason laughs, and Terry tries not to acknowledge how the sadness in the former Robin's bright blue-green eyes has lessened... and how good that makes him feel. "Hmm," Jason half-whispers. "Guess we will."


	5. Closer

The next two weeks are... strangely uneventful, Terry thinks to himself. As his arm heals, he finds himself spending more and more time getting caught up on homework with Max. At the end of his first week off of Batman-duty, he even manages to get a B+ on his history mid-term thanks to Max's nearly fascist studying routine. Previously, Terry would have said that passing that test was a statistical improbability given his record on memorizing boring facts—amazing what getting more than three or four hours asleep a night can do.

Still, Terry itches to heal and get back to work. He finds himself grinding his teeth as he looks at the New Gotham skyline and his hands and feet tingle every time the sun goes down. Okay, yeah, he's become an addict, a goddamn adrenaline junkie. He wonders if the old man ever felt like this when he got injured, or if Tim felt this way after being put off duty after his trauma with the Joker. Or if Terry just loves being Batman for all the wrong reasons...

He shakes his head and tries not to second-guess himself. He hasn't heard from Wayne since a very short and determined message on his phone warning him NOT to take the suit out again. ' _No "emergencies." No exceptions. Heal.'_ the message reads. The bat-glare is practically visible through the text.

So he heals. And he waits.

Jason seems to be awfully busy on patrol nights. A group of Jokerz ends up in a bruised pile outside of the downtown Gotham jail on Tuesday. A fear-powder lab ends up on fire on Wednesday and a bunch of dealers are driven into the street where they're arrested. A few members of the T-Gang end up 'falling off a bridge' and breaking a few limbs in the process on Thursday. They practically beg the police to take them into custody. Watching the news and seeing the nightly tally, Terry almost feels a little inadequate.

It's a Friday when he gets the message from Wayne to come by the manor and Terry rushes over on his bike, speeding the whole way. Ace greets him with a characteristic growl at the door. "Hey! Wayne? All your organs still functioning?" Terry yells into the doorway. The manor is quiet, except for Ace's ill-mannered grumbles. Terry knows what that likely means—Bruce is in the cave. Just because broken little Terry can't be Batman doesn't mean old man Wayne ever  _stops_  being his own version. He still plays detective and plans and invents—there are some days when Terry wonders if he ever leaves that computer of his.

Terry slides open the stopped clock and makes the steep walk into the cave, down the cold stone steps. Sure enough, the Bat Computer glows a ghostly blue, illuminating Bruce's grim features. "You're late," he practically growls.

"I was across town," Terry sighs. "What's up?"

Bruce's jaw tightens as he hands a portable screen to Terry. "Pick one and I'll arrange their travel. Don't take long to decide—I want your training to start this Spring."

"Huh?" Terry looks down at the screen in his hand. On it are three resumes with embedded videos, pictures, and statistics. A Wing Chun Kung Fu master from Hong Kong who is also known as a specialist in Shaolin history. A decorated and now retired Muay Thai boxer, listed as known for his strength and the power of his strikes. A founder of a Tokyo dojo which uniquely fused techniques from jujitsu and judo into a new popular martial art.

Terry glances up at Bruce questioningly. "What's this about?"

"You need more training. I'm too old to spar with you, so I'm bringing in someone else. The cover story is that you're training to be my body-guard. You already acted as one for me unofficially when the Joker attacked, so most people should find it a believable cover."

"Uh, yeah, sure." Terry flicks through the screen's files, frowning. "Wait, are you saying that Jason was _right_?"

The look Bruce gives in response could freeze nearly boiling water it's so cold. "I'm saying that, to be the best Batman you can be and to not sully my name, you should get more training. You've been getting injured far too much lately."

Terry winces. "I'll agree with you on that last part... so, which style would you recommend?"

Bruce smirks and shakes his head. "That's for you to decide... Batman."

"Uhhhh... this isn't a test is it? Like, is there a right answer and a 'slag it, you're not cut out to be Batman' answer?"

"It's best if you make your decision within a few days so we can get started." Terry can almost hear a sadistic chuckle behind the coolness of those words. "Good luck."

.

"Can't help you, kid!" Tim laughs as he carefully solders two micro-chips together. "Bruce was pissed enough about me helping you hack into his computer files. If he wants you to make a decision on your own, I'm not messing with this one."

"But how am I supposed to know what to pick?!" Terry can hear the whine in his voice and even he's mildly annoyed with himself, but—slag it—he is fed up with Bruce's games. "He barely tells me anything. I don't even know what half of this information means! A former crime-fighter's perspective would be helpful, you know?"

Tim shrugs ambivalently and adjusts his safety glasses. "If you really want opinions, ask Dick or Barbara. I'm sure they'd help and they're either in less hot water with the old coot—or at least don't care as much what he thinks. But he's not only my adopted father, he's my boss. That's his name on the company mast-head. My hands are tied, kid."

Terry grumbles to himself, deciding not to let the former Red Robin know that he has, in fact, already called both Dick and Commissioner Gordon before swinging by Tim's office. But Gordon had simply said she has better things to do than debate martial arts with a vigilante—she has 'criminals to arrest and a dysfunctional department to deal with, got that kid?' and that she isn't interested in being 'wikipedia for Batman Jr.' Terry isn't quite sure what a 'wikipedia' is, but he can take a hint and knows that Gordon isn't budging on this one. And the former Nightwing is no help at all; he won't even return Terry's calls, let alone give him advice.

"Well, thanks anyway," Terry sighs. He has one more back-up plan before just rolling some dice and leaving the whole super-ninja-teacher decision up to chance. But, still, he's not sure this back-up-plan is really his brightest idea ever...

.

The restaurant's yellow-tinged light is a decent facsimile of the way light-bulbs looked before the power regulation laws of 2020, Jason thinks to himself. As he listens to a screeching cover of the Sex Pistol's 'Anarchy in the UK' playing over the speakers, he dips his french fries in slightly-too-sweet ketchup. Not bad—not as greasy as the stuff Amy's served during his childhood, but he supposes you can never really go home again.

Amy's had always been a strange treat for Jason's family—not the Bats, his other one. When his dad avoided prison, or got out of prison, or his mom decided she had 'defeated' her drug use (that never lasted long), they'd always take a trip to Amy's to celebrate with a 'famous shake' or burger or onion rings. It had just been a few knocks better than a greasy spoon back then and not a kitschy theme restaurant. Oh the times they are a'changin.

Jason finds himself painting a bloody Jokerz's face on the white of his plate with a french fry. It cheers him up a bit and he reminds himself to look into that lead about the T-Gang's drug run when he gets home.

The booth squeaks across from him and he looks up, braced. What in the world...?

"Hey," the kid smirks and gives a half-salute. He holds up a handled bag faux-triumphantly. "I brought you back your clothes. They're washed, by the way." After a moment's hesitation, he leans over and steals one of Jason's fries too. "Not bad. I see why you like this place."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "And you knew you'd find me here because...?"

Terry shrugs, still grinning that smug know-it-all grin. "Besides the fact that Bruce wrote in your file that you used to like this place? It's in Old Town Gotham, just down the street from your 'hideout.' Plus, it's so-called 'authentic' 80s-90s chic, so no obviously contemporary tech. If you're anything like  _him_ —or any of the other Bat old-timers, actually—you get annoyed easily by news screens and cyber-treks in almost every bar and restaurant. Bruce says they're mindless chatter and 'far too much stimulation at dinner time.'" As Terry uses his fingers to make air-quotes, Jason notices begrudgingly that the kid does a fairly good mimic of Bruce's voice.

"I'll have you know that I use NS's and treks all the time when I plan patrol routes. You just got lucky—this is my first time eating here since I've been back in Gotham."

The cute waitress with the red hair has the unfortunate timing to come back to the table just about then, her Madonna tee-shirt and stud-decorated black jeans a screaming parody of Jason's childhood. "Jason, how's my favorite customer doing? Can I get you or your friend anything?"

Terry chuckles and Jason briefly considers breaking his temporary 'don't shoot anybody in Gotham' rule. After the kid orders a Reuben and a lemon soda, he waggles his eyebrows at Jason and starts to laugh again. "First time, huh?"

"Oh, fuck off. Old fogey or not, I can still kick you ass."

Terry schools his expression, seemingly with a decent amount of difficulty if the smile-like twitch on his lips is to be believed, and lets out a slow breath. "Yeah, actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He pulls a small screen out of his jacket pocket and hands it Jason's way. "You clearly hit a nerve with Wayne. He says that I should pick one of these guys to train me like a real Batman. I like the idea of being prepared and not dying, but—well—you know him. He won't give me enough info and expects me to make the right choice."

Jason snorts. "Always testing. Yeah, I know how that feels. He can be a real asshole." He skims the files as Terry's lemon soda arrives. He slurps at it awhile in silence while Jason examines the photos and videos included.

"Well?" Terry finally asks.

Jason shrugs. "They're all top notch. No tricks or trip ups—any of these guys can teach you skills that will help keep you alive and be a better Batman. It's just about what skills you need more."

"Uh huh. Well, oh wise one, what skills do I need?"

Jason snorts. "Aren't we supposed to kind of be enemies here? I'm pretty sure the old man wouldn't be thrilled at you seeking my input."

Terry takes another sip of his bright yellow soda as he shrugs one shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't." His eyes flash in a way that reminds Jason of his old car-jacking partner Tommy—Tommy was always far too risky and just a tad too wicked for his own good. With an expression like that, Jason had a hard time reminding himself that this kid ever goes by the name ' _Batman_.'

"Alright. Hm. I'd go with the Wing Chun guy."

Terry raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? Why?"

"Well, first of all, Wing Chun was originally developed for a smaller body type—specifically a woman's. Sorry to break it to you, junior, but you're not going to be winning any prizes for body mass in the hero-ing world. And the whole concept of Wing Chun is about balance, flexibility, and using the body you have to basically it's greatest potential. Judo and Muay Thai have skills you can use, but you'll have to change your body before you can use them as effectively. Secondly, being Batman isn't just about fighting. Your mind has to be trained too. This guy incorporates meditation into his training—certainly couldn't hurt, and it's something that the other guys don't offer. Lastly..." Jason smirks, cracking his knuckles for emphasis, "...it's also the only one of the three styles that you couldn't learn from, say, any former Robin."

Terry groans and pushes at his plate in frustration. "Yeah, great, except the original hates me and I've called in too many favors from Tim. So, unless your plan is to train me secretly so Bruce doesn't blow a gasket..." Terry stops mid-sentence and frowns. "Wait, that's not actually what you're suggesting, right? Because that would be stupid and insane."

Jason signals for the check and shrugs. "No, stupid and insane would be not using all your resources to actually  _be_  a good Bat. Stupid and insane would be staying vulnerable because you're worried about hurting the asshole's feelings."

"He'll take away his suit."

"You train well enough, you won't need his suit."

Terry bites his lip and stares at the restaurant table like he wants to burn a hole through it with spontaneous heat-vision. "Are you offering to train me because you care about keeping me alive or because you want to piss off Bruce?"

"I have to choose?"

That gets a laugh from the kid, even if it's a somewhat bitter one. "No, guess not." He takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes on Jason determinately. "Okay. When do we start?"

.

_One month later..._

Sweat drips from his brow and spills—tear-like—across his nose. His breath is heavy and mingles with the man's above him. "Just a little more..." the voice is breathy and deep. Terry bites the side of his mouth, tries to keep composure—and finally caves. "Slag it." Terry groans as Jason presses in.

Jason laughs. "Oh, give me a break, junior. I've seen you kick—you can stretch your leg more than that."

"Not after a four hour training, you asshole." Jason just grins and pushes Terry's leg further against his ear. "Argh! You know what? I hate you. Loath you, actually. I'm going to write a manifesto. A thousand ways that Jason Todd fucking sucks and is a slagging sadist."

"Sure, sure. But you know what? You'll fucking thank me when your kicks are twice as fast."

Terry snorts and tries not to gasp in relief as Jason lets go of his leg and steps back. "My shins hurt like hell, you know."

Jason shrugs and tosses Terry a water-bottle from half-across the room. "As they should. You're breaking down and remodeling your bone tissue. The Chinese herbs on the counter will sooth that somewhat." Terry tries not to wrinkle his nose. Both Jason and his new trainer, Master Chen, keep swearing by these herbs. Terry wonders if it's possible to overdose given how much both of them keep pushing them. He sighs and grabs the bottle from the counter. May as well get it over with…

"And just keep building up your leg muscles," Jason continues. "Running and roof-jumping will help. The firmer muscle surrounding your bone-tissue should help prevent future pain. You're built, kid, but not Batman-level built." Jason pauses slightly and takes a quick glance at Terry's torso. "…though, I could practically cut something on those ab muscles. You're on your way. We just need to actually train and apply the strength and muscle you have correctly."

"Hmm." Terry finishes rubbing the pungent green liquid on his aching shins and tries not to dwell on what could (maybe?) have been a compliment. He wraps his legs in athletic tape as Jason starts absently humming an old rock song. "I'm back on patrol full time on Friday, by the way."

"Yeah? Your arm healed up a while ago, didn't it? What was the old man's delay?"

Terry shrugs. "He wanted me to start training with Master Chen. I think he was nervous about letting me back out after getting my ass handed to me by both you and Mad Stan."

Jason chuckles. "I think 'ass handed' is a bit strong. How's the training?"

"Almost worse than yours, actually. My forearms hurt almost as bad as my shins—and his Chinese herbs smell only slightly less foul than yours, by the way—and he seems to think I need to relearn how to throw a punch. A punch! I've been fighting since I was thirteen. I know how to sock someone on the jaw."

Jason passes Terry a towel as he chuckles. "Wing Chun is all about precision. If your punch isn't perfect, it needs to be relearned. Once you perfect that, though, you should be able to seriously tackle some pretty amazing feats of defensive-offense. I'm a little jealous, actually—I've studied a lot of ancient and not-so-ancient arts, but that's one I've always admired and never learned myself. Who knows? You get good enough, and maybe you'll be able to pin me."

Terry smirks, not able to stop himself from taking the bait. "Oh yeah? I keep practicing and you think I'll have you begging for mercy, Todd?"

"Mmmm. I don't beg, junior. But keep working like you are and you might give me a run for my money before too long."

Terry wonders if he imagines the fire in Jason's eyes, or if the teasing and intensity is just part of being a former Robin. Difficult to say. "I just wish this was going faster. I'm getting tougher and, sure, more 'precise,' but is that really going to translate when Inque, or The Stalker, or some sort of Apocalypse monster is after me?"

Jason makes a humming sound as he sits down next to Terry and helps him wrap his left arm. "I had a teacher named Ducra who used to tell me a story whenever I became impatient. It was about a boy who searched the high Himalayas for the most skilled of teachers. He finally finds a man about who legends are told and he begs the man to teach him. After the boy refuses to move from the man's doorstep for days, the legendary teacher agrees. But he does not show the boy a single form or a single weapon. Instead, he has him stand out in the snow. He fills a basic with water, which soon becomes freezing cold as they stand outside. He orders the boy to chop with his hands like this—" Jason's hand creates a sharp chopping motion. Terry can feel a burst of air across his face at the speed "—until the basin is empty. The boy does this. Then the next day he is asked to do it again. And the next day again. And again. Months go by and the boy returns home to visit his aged grandparents. They ask him if he has learned what he has sought and the boy is overcome with emotion. 'No!' he exclaims, his eyes filling with tears. In frustration, he brings his hand down on the grandparents' solid wood table. Out of habit, he makes the same motion he has used day in and day out to chop the water. To everyone's shock, the table cracks perfectly in two."

There is a far-away look in his eyes as Jason tells this story. Terry wants to ask who Ducra was. Terry wants to know why there is warmness in this story, while there is bitterness whenever he mentions Bruce's lessons. But… mostly he wants to just sit here for a moment, Jason's hand on his arm, and to not interrupt this strange moment of soft peacefulness.

Jason suddenly starts, as if shaking himself out of a memory. "So, yeah, seemingly useless training often leads to not-so-useless action. Once you're out on patrol, I bet you'll find that you're better already. In fact…" Jason smirks, his eyes suddenly harder and teasing again, "…I'll make you a bet."

"Oh yeah? What kind of bet?"

Jason leans in close and taps Terry's aching shin with his fingertips. "When I watched you on patrol, it took you maybe five to seven minutes to take out a standard group of ten or twelve Jokerz. I have intel there's a group about that size making a move on the T-Gang in the historic district in two nights. I'll send you coordinates. If you can take them out in  _under_  two minutes, we'll take a break from training and..." Jason pauses and shrugs. "I don't know. What do impatient eighteen-year-olds these days do for fun?"

"Two minutes? For a group of ten to twelve? That's tight." Terry raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. "If I  _were_  to make it, though, most free-for-the-night eighteen-year-olds these days go out dancing at the Icehouse or Juice Bar."

"Okay then," Jason grins. "Dancing it is. If you make it under two minutes that is... Batman."

Terry tries to ignore the lump in his throat as he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I took WIng Chun for six years (thus my shameless use of it here) and heard the story of the water bowl all the time. And then someone had to go put it in an episode of CW's Arrow after I wrote this chapter. Argh - not ripping off the TV show, I swear. ;)


	6. Bad Ideas

Max tries not to be impatient, but Terry is late. Again. She could be practicing hacking into Brant's Security Inc. or the Gotham PD, but no—she is stuck waiting for Terry so that she can help him with his economics project. She had finished hers in record time (nothing that a set of "sample" bank records and an algorithm couldn't handle), but Terry still hasn't taken the time to start his yet. Sometimes she wonders if that boy would even have a dream of a chance of graduating if he didn't have her help.

Most of the time it doesn't bother her—she's helping Batman, for crying out loud! Fighting the good fight of making sure the not-so-caped crusader doesn't fail all of his classes. But sometimes Terry's flakiness gets a bit taxing...

"Sorry! I know I'm late!" Terry just about collapses into the chair in front of her, his forehead beaded with sweat and his breath heavy. There are damp bandages around his arms, causing Max to raise an eyebrow.

"What in the heck are those?"

"Huh?" Terry looks down at his arms. "Oh. Athletic bandages. They keep these gross Chinese herbs on my skin to help sooth damage. Both Chen and Jason say I should have them on whenever I can. I'll take them off and wash my arms before heading home—mom would freak, you know? But, then, she'd also freak if she saw how red my arms and legs are from training. Herbs should help keep that on a visual down-low."

"Geeze," Max whistles. "That sounds... painful." Terry just shrugs and grins. As Terry takes out his view screen, Max can't help but ask: "So, how's training going anyway?"

He hesitates, chewing on his lip a moment. "Good, I think. Chen's a fascist during training, and Jason's a freaking sadist. But I'm definitely getting stronger. And just overall I think I'll be a better, well, you know." Terry glances around the coffee shop where they're sitting. Yeah, better not to be too blunt about Terry's night job.

He's clearly holding something back, though. His eyes look distant and distracted. "That it?" Max tries to sound cheery and not too prying, but Terry's both her friend and her main source of entertainment. Not knowing is  _not_  an option.

"Yes. Well, no. I mean..." Terry scrunches up his forehead and rubs his eyes frustratedly. "We're flirting? I think? I'm pretty sure it's flirting. It feels like flirting. And that's, well, weird. But oddly nice weird? I mean... yeah... it's weird."

Max's eyes widen as she sets down her stylus pen. "I sure hope you're talking about your sixty-year-old kung fu master, Ter. Because the only other way to take that statement is that you are flirting with a twisted, murderous vigilante who is not only over forty years older than you but who is nearly immortal and has—according to that file—tried to kill your boss. Remember that? And that would be really, really stupid Terry. I mean, you flirting with the old Chinese man would be gross, but not as absolutely and ridiculously idiotic!"

Terry winces. "Yeah, I know. Totally stupid."

"Damn right it is," Max can feel her voice getting sharper, but—damn it—this level of idiocy is a whole new low for Terry. "It's bizarre enough that you are okay with him training you and giving you tips. I mean, are you okay with folks running around cutting even notably horrible criminals'  _hands_  off?"

"No! Of course not! It's just..."

"It's just nothing. Ter, if you really think that what this Red Hood guy does is wrong when he's not on temporarily good behavior, then you might need to fight him someday. And, if push comes to shove, are you going to be able to keep your head if you've been being all friendly with him? Or, even worse, if you've been making googly eyes and kissy faces at him?"

"Slag it." Terry sighs and lets his head fall on the coffee table. "I hate it when you're right. God... it  _is_  really stupid. Okay, I'll make sure to stay shway, be distant and professional. Keep in mind Jason's history and what he's capable of." Terry pauses and frowns as he lifts up his head. "Did you say 'kissy faces'? Seriously?"

"You know I don't date. Who knows what people do when they're trying to screw each other." When Terry chuckles and opens his mouth to respond, Max holds up her hand. "And don't you dare tell me! Ignorance is bliss in this case. Now, can we please get to work now so you don't fail economics?"

Terry chuckles and nods. "Yes, ma'am."

.

_[[You're coming up on the signal. They probably don't realize they've tripped the silent alarm, but that doesn't mean they haven't planned for trouble. Stay alert...]]_

"I have done this before, you know," Terry growls into his com. Bruce has been overly 'helpful' all night, but Terry really doesn't mind that much. The hardest thing has been moving toward the old historic district without a good excuse. He was wondering how he was going to justify stumbling across the Jokerz when the silent alarm had tripped.  _Thanks for thinking ahead, Jason..._

He only curses to himself slightly when he sees that there are not ten or twelve Jokerz, but closer to twenty.

 _[[Eighteen Jokerz.]]_ Bruce supplies.  _[[You can get the drop on the five to the side, but you'll have to be quiet if you don't want to draw the attention of...]]_

"I got this," Terry breathes. And then he goes to work.

He thinks of the story of the man chopping the water as shin connects with the first Joker's face at nearly the identical time that he drives an elbow into the second Joker's abdomen. Upper palm-strike to the third's throat. Knee to the fourth's side, followed by a follow-up chop to the jaw. He doesn't hold back force and moves with intentional speed. No witty quips—no aerial dodges. Just make these clowns go down fast.

He drives a fist hard into a Joker's face... and realizes with an almost surreal calm that it was Joker number eighteen. He breathing is hard as he glances around the gang members groaning on the ground.

 _[[That was... solid work.]]_ There is something strange in Bruce's voice, but Terry can tell that the compliment is genuine. Terry is about to respond when he hears the click of a heat-cell charging up.

"Hey, guys!" a T-Gang member yells, cocking his gun. "We've got ourselves a trespasser."

A quick scan behind him reveals ten T-Gang members armed to the teeth. Terry can't help but grin to himself.  _Happy day back, Batman. Here's round two..._

It soon feels like he's been fighting—full power and full speed, dodging gun blasts and weaving between T-gang members—for, like, forever. Unlike Jokerz, the T-Gang wears some amount of body armor (though they do leave their faces wide open, Terry notes) and their weapons are almost all projectiles.

Hiding in the shadows is the best bet when he can, but getting in close to take them down is more effective. Terry flies full force into one, who falls back and allows Terry to vault off of the alley wall and slam a kick into another T-gang member's face. The man falls back screaming as Terry dodges another shot of a heat gun and takes down one more thug from behind. One shot gets through, grazing Terry's arm. The suit protects him—mostly—but the heat is a reminder to keep his head in the game. Only two men still standing... Terry hooks his right arm around the one gang member's head and pulls down fast—just the way Jason taught him—and slams the man's head into his knee. Twice. All it takes is a pivot and a sharp Master-Chen-style shot to the final man's throat and it's over.

Terry lets out a heavy breath as he looks around. No one's getting up, but the groans and mumbles are a good sign that Terry achieved his goal of no serious damage. He hits the signal on his belt which auto-calls 9-1-1 and also signals for the Bat-plane.

"Not bad, huh?" he half-gasps and half-laughs into his microphone. He can hear Wayne grunt on the other side, but no other commentary. "So, what now?"

_[[Are you injured?]]_

"Um... not really? A slight graze from one gun. It stings, but it's not bad."

_[[Come on back to the cave. You should put some burn-cream on that wound. You've done enough for tonight.]]_

"Really?" Terry raises his eyebrow as he punches the accelerator and starts to turn toward the hidden Bat-Cave entrance near Wayne Manor. "It's not even midnight."

_[[It's your first night back and you just took out a good percentage of the downtown gang violence in under twenty minutes. Let the word spread around Gotham and we'll see how crime patterns change. As for tonight, though... you've been working hard. And it... shows.]]_

"Uh... Thanks?" Terry finds himself smiling like an idiot under his mask. He's pretty sure that Bruce Wayne just gave him an actual compliment. Did Hell freeze over? Should he watch out for aerial pigs?

 _[[Just making an accurate observation,]]_  Wayne corrects.  _[[Although, now that you've shown that you can meet high standards, my expectations will have to get even higher...]]_

Terry can practically see the smirk over the radio. "Great. Seriously looking forward to it."

Wayne chuckles at Terry's obvious sarcasm.  _[[Just get back here.]]_

"Roger that!" It's then that Terry just barely sees the red light flashing morse code on top of a roof in the historic district. A building right near to Jason's apartment no less... Terry notes the location and tries not to grin too much as he speeds toward Bruce and the cave.

.

Jason wonders briefly if his signal was too subtle or if maybe the kid didn't see it. But just as he starts to consider heading home, or at least getting off of this rooftop, he hears the sound of someone rushing up the fire-escape. Sure enough, Terry vaults onto the roof, his face practically glowing as he grins from ear to ear. "So, what was my time anyway?"

Jason tries to look grim. "Well, you took sixteen minutes to take both the Jokerz and the T-Gang out. There were twenty-eight thugs total who stuck around to fight. That's an average of 33 seconds per person. Way too long, junior."

"What?! Hey, wait—that's not fair. If that's cumulative, you know that I took longer to take down the T-Gang. But they not only took a few seconds to show up, but they also had armor  _and_  guns! That wasn't part of our original conversation. Plus, there were six or seven more Jokerz than planned!"

"Whine, whine, whine," Jason snarls. "You never know what Gotham will throw at you, kid. You have to be prepared for everything."

"Which I  _was_ —they all went down  _and_  they were all arrested, if you didn't notice. I can't believe you! Are you seriously saying that I was supposed to take all twenty-eight down in two minutes!? That's insane! That's..." Jason can't hold back his laughter anymore and it takes Terry a few moments to shake his head in realization. "You're just fucking with me, aren't you?"

"Definitely," Jason grins. "Believe it or not, you actually hit the two minute mark for taking down  _all_  of the Jokerz. And, yes, that is damn impressive. And a bit over twelve minutes of actual fighting time to take down eighteen guys with both guns and body armor isn't bad at all. So," Jason gestures out over the city horizon, "if the old man is true to form, he gave you the rest of the night off. And I owe you a celebration. Where to?"

Terry bites his lip, as if weighing his options and nods for Jason to follow him down the fire-escape.

It's a ten minute walk to the Juice Bar, and they spend most of the walk in a semi-comfortable silence. It's only when they reach the club itself that Jason pauses, listening to the beat vibrating through the walls. "Oh Christ, wait, is there going to be any  _actual_  music here?"

Terry raises an eyebrow. "It's a dance club. Of course there's music."

"Really? Because what I hear sounds more like someone threw some spare machine parts and a bunch of broken glass in a blender. Or like a motorcycle just peeled out of a parking lot and was immediately hit by a mach truck—over and over and over again.  _That_  is noise, not music."

"Huh... want to yell at those darn kids and tell them to get off your lawn too, while you're at it?" Terry's voice is impassive, but his lips twitch into a smirk so smug that Jason's trigger finger twitches slightly.

"You can't tell me that half of that 'music' doesn't sound like scraping knives across a chalkboard."

Terry's face scrunches up slightly. "What's a chalkboard?"

When Jason looks at him incredulously, the boy at least has the decency to laugh. Okay, yeah, the kid's fucking with him. Tit-for-tat, serves him right. Jason waves his hand toward the thumping club. "All right, all right. Lay on, Macduff..."

It's fascinating to watch Terry as he enters the Juice Bar, shaking his head for a moment as if to clear something out of his hair. As if a switch is turned, Terry's every step is in rhythm with the thumping beat. His fingers tap against his leg and he nods his head exactly when the beat shifts and warps. As a teen about his age winks at him, Terry nods back, looking completely and wholly in his element.

Without looking back to make sure Jason is following, Terry weaves effortlessly through the teenaged crowd and slides up to a LED lit bar. He shouts out an order that Jason can't hear over the screaming noise of the deejay. The bartender hands Terry a skinny shot glass full of a thick orange liquid as Terry swipes his card in payment. Jason's curiosity must have shown on his face because Terry immediately points to the glass as he walks over. "Orange-Carrot juice with ginseng, taurine, B-vitamins, and a few other uppers," he projects over the 'music.' "Want one?"

"No. Sounds a bit much for eleven at night."

Terry shrugs. "Your loss, old timer. It's a weekend—most people will stay here until closing and that's three a.m. Stimulants of all kinds are pretty common here." Terry frowns a moment and notes, "Oh, don't worry. I'd never use one on patrol."

The fact that Terry feels the need to say that—combined with the 'old timer' swipe—makes Jason feel like he's an actual senior citizen, like he's projecting clouds of out-of-touch ancientness all around him. "Wasn't worrying about it," Jason lies.

Terry raises an eyebrow for a moment, then half-shrugs as he tosses back the shot. He licks his lips a moment—something Jason would like him to never, ever do again thank you very much—and looks out into the thundering club. "So, want to dance?"

Jason winces. "Uh, no. Your next disgusting looking juice shot is on me and I'll watch your jacket or something, but that..." he points vaguely at two girls twisting and gnarling their bodies in time to the noxious noise, "...looks like it's not my scene. Let me know if they seem like they're about to play something that can be moshed to, though."

Terry smirks. "Okay, but you don't know what you're missing."

"Nope, pretty sure I do," Jason sighs as Terry slips away into the writhing crowd. "Jesus Christ..." Jason shakes his head and tries not to kick himself too much for suggesting a night out.  _'Should be keeping things in the Bat-world, Todd. You're playing with fire here...'_  If he had guessed before showing up in Gotham, he would have said that there was a good chance of Wayne's new protege hating him. That was kind of the script, after all: Hood meets Bat, Hood and Bat fight, some sort of massive threat—like a multidimensional conspiracy—causes Bat and Hood to have to work together, Bat and Hood call truce, but Hood and Bat continue to hate each other. The end. Didn't matter if it was Bruce himself, or Dick, or Tim, or Damien, or Babs... they all did their song and dance to the same beat.

Terry's not following the script, though. The kid seems to actually  _like_  spending time with Jason. In fact, he almost seems to be flirting—but then, that might be Jason's wishful thinking, he realizes.

Still... he and Terry have definitely fallen into a strange and comfortable banter, the kind that usually comes from familiarity. Of course, Jason is used to Bat-banter; it was kind of a prerequisite for being a Robin, and all of the Bat's former sidekicks have an unspoken agreement that throwing barbs is as important to winning their personal battles as throwing fists. He remembers one fight with Tim in particular... Jason had dominated that fight physically, leaving the Red Robin broken and bloodied. But, spitting blood on the sidewalk, Tim had ended the fight with just a few sharp comments which caused Jason to feel like he had lost entirely. He doesn't remember what Tim said, only how it made him feel—like the younger Robin had taken to the role of Boy Wonder so much better than he had.

But banter with Terry isn't anything like Robin-banter. It isn't full of acid and malice and competition. It's lighter, more teasing and probing, like Terry is trying to figure out what and how Jason thinks with every joke and reference. It is un-Robin-like and, honestly, un-Batman-like as well... but it does remind Jason of  _someone_... he just can't put his finger on who.

Terry's body is at home on the dance-floor and blends in perfectly with the other writhing figures his age. Jason tries not to stare—at least not stare obviously—but the boy can move and, worst of all, it seems like he knows it.

A girl nearby has a flicker of recognition on her face as she glances Terry's way and she slides over to him, her shimmery lips glowing under the flashing LED-lights. She has short blond hair and a killer body, and Jason allows himself some self-deception and tells himself that the stab of jealousy that he feels when the blond presses her whole body against Terry to whisper in his ear—causing him to lean in and then laugh about something, seemingly carelessly—is because he'd like her pressed up against his own body. And now that he thinks about it, Jason wouldn't mind that at all. The girl  _is_  hot. I mean, not Starfire hot, but then who is and...

Suddenly a realization hits Jason and it feels like a bucket of ice water has been poured directly into his veins.

Roy.

Terry's carefree banter, his flirty sense of humor, and his way of carrying himself in the world reminds him so very, very much of Roy Harper. Jason feels his whole body tense.  _'Okay, Todd, well that should be your final clue. You clearly have a type...'_

Jason can't remember how long he carried a secret torch for Roy Harper. They had met each other as Teen Titans and had immediately bonded over being a little more dangerous than your average sidekick. There had been a decent amount of repartee between them, and a decent amount of sneaking out of Titan's headquarters together to get into a mild-amount of trouble too. The connection had led them to fooling around a bit as teens—nothing major, heavy petting and spit-swapping mostly. But it was enough.

After Jason died—and after he came back—he and Roy had gotten in touch again. Roy the ex-Arrow recovering junkie, Jason the ex-Robin not-so-recovering murderer. They were good together. So good and so at ease, in fact, that Jason had probably assumed some things about where the connection could go... but Roy, despite the semi-flirting and teenage fling between them, had turned out to be pretty straight-ish (' _a pretty good possibility for Terry too_ ,' he thinks) and Roy's deeply romantic relationship with Starfire was just too right, too perfect, too good for both of them for Jason to mess up.

Jason sees Terry walking toward him and forces a smirk to his face. He thinks of cigarette smoke, of scorpion tattoos and pale freckles, of creaking red leather.. Yeah, better to play it aloof, help get the kid trained, and not get too close. The lingering memories convince him—there's far too much potential for awkwardness and mess here.  _'Better to stay alone...'_

.

Terry notices just a flash of pensiveness on Jason's face before it morphs into a teasing grin. "Who was that, hot shot?"

Terry has a pretty good idea who Jason is talking about. "Chelsea. We go to school together."

"Yeah?" Jason pauses for a moment. "She clearly has a thing for you."

"Chelsea has a thing for everyone," Terry dismisses. "Well, anyone who isn't already drooling over her. She likes the challenge."

"So, not your thing?"

Terry shakes his head. "She's way too high maintenance. She can be as hot as she wants—but I didn't even have time for Dana, who was super easy-going and a freakin' saint for all of the times I blew her off. Chelsea is way more trouble than she's worth."

"Huh." There's something tight in Jason's voice that Terry can't identify. He looks up, ready to ask, when he sees the woman behind Jason fall off of her bar stool and collapse to the floor. Terry rushes over, on his knees and checking her pulse on instinct.

"Hey! You okay? Hey!"

"Ter..."

Terry looks up at the warning in Jason's voice, but Jason is looking out on to the dance floor. As Terry follows his eye line, his breath catches in his throat. The floor is littered with unconscious bodies. The Juice Bar is under attack.


	7. In Your Head

Jason feels himself start to become dizzy as he sweeps his eyes across the Juice Bar. More people are collapsing left and right; those who are left standing seem to be starting to panic, but their legs are already wobbly and begin to buckle as they move toward an exit.

"I don't smell any kind of gas," Jason yells over the music, which is still blaring at top volume. "Do you think it could be poison in the juice? Or something with the music?"

"Don't know," Terry yells back. "Hey—is it brighter in here?"

Jason shields his eyes and starts to look up. "Definitely. It's the big projector at the back of the dance floor."

Terry growls in a voice that is all 'Batman', "It's the instillation! Look, everyone near it collapsed first!"

"What's the instillation?"

Terry shakes his head. "I fought a bunch of Jokerz in here—ones that worked actually for the Joker and who knew... who I am." Terry gestures at the back of the building, clearly trying not to look in that direction. "There used to be a giant lava lamp there. But the owners decided that it was really dangerous when it got busted in the fight. A bunch of people were burnt. So, when they renovated, they put a laser and light instillation..."

"Which is now causing people to collapse. Great."

"Yeah—the mirrors on the back of the bar reflect it from both angles too!"

Jason curses and reaches into his boot where he keeps his use-only-in-emergencies Nightwing-style domino mask. He presses the button which distributes the sealant and presses it to his face. Terry raises an eyebrow.

"Do you carry that wherever you go?"

"Yes, actually. I've been in way too many ambushes and catastrophes when lenses or night-vision would have been useful." Jason adjusts the lenses, looking for a filter which can focus on what the screen in the back is  _doing_  to people. "And where's yours, kid? Now would be a good time to go get changed!"

"Uh..." Even in the dim light, Jason can see Terry's face flush pink. "Didn't exactly bring it. Rest of the night off, remember?"

"Well, grab the bartender's phone and call the old man! Tell him to send the car with the suit!"

"Right," Terry leaps over the bar and grabs the service phone. He pauses briefly, "That mask going to shield you from whatever this is?"

Jason half-shrugs. "We'll find out, won't we? Probably not as well as my helmet but we've got limited options! Whatever this is, we—"

Jason doesn't even finish his sentence when the doors to the Juice Bar are flung open by a team of figures dressed all in black, their eyes covered with high-tech goggles. Behind them, walking with a sense of haughtiness that only comes from someone seeing himself as above everyone else, is a thin figure dressed in a swirl of red and black.

"Shit. That's Spellbinder. What's he doing here? Last I heard, he was working with Cobra in Central City."

"Yeah? Well, apparently you're out of date," Jason half-snaps. "What do I need to know?"

"His real name is Ira Billings. He was a psychologist and specialized in dreams and 'manifestations of unconscious desires.' He uses hypnotic tech which is like a kind of mind control. It can create illusions and hallucinations which seem awfully real."

"Got it. Piece of cake," Jason chuckles. "You go get that suit. I'll hold down the fort here."

"You sure? Maybe you should give me the mask and go get your helmet. I know this guy and his strategies and you..."

"Have been fighting villains who fuck with minds since before you were born. Just go!"

Terry hesitates only briefly, then nods and bolts through the door marked 'emergency exit.' The bar's alarm starts blaring over the already obnoxious music and Jason wishes briefly for an aspirin.

"I see someone's still awake," Spellbinder coos. "Boys, take care of him."

The goggled men in black move sluggishly, like they're sleepwalking—which Jason realizes they very well might be. He tries to use minimal force—they're probably mostly 'innocent,' after all—but still take them down as quickly as he can.

"Fascinating," the man in red and black says, tilting his head sideways in a way that seems ostrich-like. Jason slams his foot into the back of the last goggled man's knee, causing him to buckle and fall. He turns to meet the spiral-cloaked villain, his plan being to take him down hard and fast before he can dispel whatever aerosol, beam, or wave that is causing the mass of unconsciousness.

Spellbinder's voice is raspy and tinged in conceit. "Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain," he says. Before Jason has a moment to react, however, there is a hand in his face. "...and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead."

Jason barely has time to see the image of the giant eyeball seemingly emerging from the Spellbinder's palm when there is a flash of white. And then blankness.

.

When he opens his eyes, everything is foggy, too distant. This body has a strange far-away ache and the lights are a bright, sterile white. ' _I'm in a hospital_ ,' his brain concludes. Growing up, his mom od'ed enough times—and his dad had gotten in enough fights with lowlifes—for him to recognize the specific harshness of hospital lights by instinct. He tries to piece everything together, but his head is still swimming. There... there was a fight. That much he knows. Apparently it was a fight that he lost too.

Jason tries to sit up, but he's stopped both by the IVs in his arm and a sharp "don't move" from his bedside. He looks up into a crackling intensity of blue eyes.

Bruce.

"You shouldn't be moving now, Jay." Something in Jason's chest tightens at the sound of Bruce's nickname for him, but he's unsure why. "You've been out for awhile and you still have a lot of healing left to do."

"What..." His voice is crackled and harsh in his throat, like he hasn't spoken for ages. "What happened?"

Bruce's face is pained and hesitant. "You don't remember?"

"I mean," Jason closes his eyes and sees flashes of light and pain, "a little." As his mind combs over the fractured memories, walks back to what he last remembers clearly, he can feel his eyes begin to water. "Shit... shit, Bruce, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I..."

"It's okay, Jason. There's nothing to apologize for. I... I'm just glad you're okay." Bruce puts his hand on Jason's and, for some reason, Jason's brain can't comprehend how  _small_  his own hands are. He doesn't know why this strikes him—he has pretty normal sized hands for a fifteen year old, after all. But, for some reason, a part of himself feels that his hands should be bigger, maybe even more scarred. But that's a silly thought.

"I should have listened. Shouldn't have gone after my mom." Jason's voice breaks as he talks and he can feel tears begin to sting his eyes. "God, Bruce, but how could she have...?"

Before he can continue, Bruce is there, his arms around him. "I know, kiddo. I know."

He feels a flood gate break and he's sobbing now into Bruce's shoulder, his hands grasping and twisting at the shirt's fabric as if holding on for dear life is all he can do. Like maybe Bruce will disappear if he doesn't hold on tight. But Bruce just keeps holding him close, quiet in his solidness. Jason is almost vaguely embarrassed as his sobs subside to sniffles and quiet gulps of air. "I think I got snot and stuff all over your shirt," he apologizes.

"That's okay," Bruce breathes. "It's all going to be okay, Jay."

Jason wipes his nose on his arm and notices the orange light seeping through the hospital window blinds. "Looks like it's starting to get dark. Should you go change?"

Bruce winces and then runs his right hand through his dark hair, as if he's not sure how to say something and is stalling for time. "Not tonight. Actually... I'm not sure when I'll be out there again. In the suit. I'm... on suspension."

"Suspension?" Jason feels a laugh erupt out of his throat. He lowers his voice so no nosy hospital workers can overhear, "You're Batman! Who could suspend you?"

"The Justice League."

Jason's eyes widen and he leans forward, the IVs pulling at his arm. "I can't believe Superman would be, like, okay with that."

"He is the one who made the official call." Bruce's voice is grim, slipping into Batman-territory rather than fatherly playboy. "In fact, he was very clear about the possibly consequences if I put on the suit before the League clears me. If it clears me..."

"What... why?"

Bruce's face darkens and Jason's breath catches in his throat as the slates of the window blinds cause striped shadows to cut across his mentor's face. "Because I killed the Joker."

For a terrifying moment, he can't breathe. Can't think. Part of him is horrified that 'Batman,' that Bruce, crossed that line. Another part of him sings with elation.

"Wha..." Jason feels tears whelming up again and he has to cover his mouth with his hand as a near-hysterical cry bubbles in his throat. "How?"

"Very easily, actually. He never was that skilled of a fighter. I didn't hold back. And, yes, perhaps I was fueled by rage, not thinking clearly. But... I honestly thought you were dead. I didn't know Clark had gotten you to a hospital, that you were still breathing. Barely. And after what the Joker had done to Barbara too. I... I knew he wasn't going to stop. It seemed like the only way. Or, at least, the right way." Jason can hear the conviction in Bruce's voice, his confidence and pride. "I don't regret it. Even with the relief of knowing you were alive, I thought it was right and just. I still think so." His smile is sharper now, bitter. "As you can imagine, the rest of the League disagrees. They think I've crossed a line. That I'm not to be trusted. So, they're debating what to do with me..."

"What... what will they do if they say you can't do it anymore? Can't be Batman? Will you fight?"

Bruce considers this grimly and then moves his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Perhaps. But... seeing you lying there in that hospital bed made me think about my responsibilities. I have more in my life now than my parents' murder. Maybe even more than Gotham itself. I may try and stay in the fight, but, well, maybe I'll let it be. I could fight the Justice League... or I could be there for you. Ultimately, Jason, you're more important to me than being Batman."

Jason's eyes widen and he fights back tears. After his mother betrayed him, after his dad neglected him and left, after everything that had happened and the tough times between he and Bruce... he felt... he felt...

"No." His voice in his throat is hard and cold, almost unfamiliar to his own ears. But there is certainty to it. Confidence. "That's not right. You'd never make that choice."

Bruce's eyes widen and his brow knits together. "Jay? What do you mean?"

Jason's hands ball into fists and he can feel a bitterly cold anger spreading in his chest. "The mission is more important to you than anything else. It's why I hate you, but it's also why I admire you. You're committed to Batman and to your cause before anything else. I couldn't hold a flame to that. No one could. You'd sacrifice anything for it. Any one."

"I'd never sacrifice you, Jason."

"Yes, you would! In fact... you have." Jason's mind seems to crackle with memory fragments.  _"I'm not talking about killing Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. I'm talking about him. Just him... Well, I'm not going to give you the choice, Bruce. I'm going to blow his addled, deranged brains out and, if you want to stop it, you're going to have to shoot me. Right in my face."_

"Jason," Bruce's voice is stern but artificially calm. "You have had severe head-trauma. You may be experiencing artificial memories that feel real, but they're not, Jason. Just settle down. It's all going to be fine. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"Shut up!" Jason rips the IV from his arm and jumps from his hospital bed, backing into the hallway. "This isn't real!"

"Jason! Calm down!" It's full 'command' voice, the kind that usually makes Jason snap to attention (and feel mildly weak in the knees) but now he just shakes his head.

"GET OUT OF MY MIND!" A nurse pushing a cart full of medical equipment pauses at the commotion, and Jason seizes on the opportunity. He grabs a scalpel from the open drawer and brings it toward his own throat.

"Jason!" Bruce screams. "Think about this logically. What if you're wrong. What if this  _is_  reality? What if what you're imagining now—what you  _think_  is real—is the illusion?"

Somewhere, in a haze of remembered history, Jason knows there's someone he needs to help. Someone fighting. That he shouldn't waste anymore time.

"Then put my costume in a nice display case, Bruce. You're good at those." Before he has a chance to respond, Jason pulls the scalpel toward him sharply and slices aggressively across his neck.

.

Terry bites his lip as he pulls the suit on as fast as he can in the cramped Bat-Wing. "I just don't understand what Spellbinder wants with the kids at the Juice Bar," he growls into the communicator.

_[[If he's found a way to apply the technology used to create his personal illusion orb on a mass scale, he can incapacitate or hypnotize not just individuals, but whole groups. There are a lot of organizations who would pay top dollar for that kind of power.]]_

"Definitely not shway," Terry grunts, pulling the mask on. "I better get in there and pull the plug then."

_[[Be care...]]_

Bruce doesn't get to finish his warning as Terry crashes through the club's skylight, glass raining down with him and reflecting the flashing dance-lights like neon rain.

"Whatever your plan is, dreg, it's over!"

Spellbinder tips his head to the side and chuckles. "Is it? I was unaware. I was under the impression it was just beginning."

All at once, the young adults from the floor begin to rise, eyes rolled back to reveal near-glowing whites. They shamble toward Terry, a sluggish army protecting their spiral-cloaked master.

"Slag it!" Terry weaves through the mind-controlled mass, dodging clumsy punches and sequined purses being wielded like maces. He tries to shuffle backwards, get out of their reach so that he can fly above them and go after Spellbinder. Unfortunately, he trips over a lone body on the floor, causing him to fall over, sprawling. It's only after he curses under his breath and wishes for more padding in the stupid suit around his tailbone that he recognizes the unconscious figure.

"Jason!"

Bruce's voice is harsh and sharp with anger. _[[Jason's there? At the Juice Bar?]]_

Slag it, he forgot about Bruce on the comm. "He's unconscious," Terry hurriedly feels Jason's neck and breathes a sigh of relief at the steady pulse. "Alive though."

"Ah, you two know each other?" Spellbinder coos. "I suppose that's not surprising. There are only so many people drawn to mask-wearing and cavalierly throwing themselves in harm's way. It's natural that you'd find one another—like alcoholics drawn to the same bar."

Terry wants to reply with something witty, but the zombie-like civilians are descending upon him and he has to concentrate on incapacitating them without hurting them. He weaves under flailing arms and sweeps a few legs, hoping that the vacant-eyed civilians aren't too bruised by their uncoordinated landings. "I need to stop this mind-controlled swarm without hurting anybody!"

_[[You need to figure out what Spellbinder is using to control them. If you can stop his signal, it's possible...]]_

"Of course! The light installation!" Terry curses himself for forgetting as he presses a explosive charge on his utility belt, arming it. He sparks his jettison boots, hoping to get clear of the swarming crowd. He only gets a few feet off the ground when several hands grab his leg, pulling him down again. "Slag it!" Terry kills the jets, but not before a few people's arms get scorched. He winces as he smells the sizzle of burnt flesh. "I can't get clear without hurting people!"

Terry hears a groan behind him. He turns slightly and, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jason's previously unconscious body stumble to its feet.

"No, no, no, no!" Terry dodges a thrust from a girl who is trying to stab him with a half-broken juice glass. "Please don't be mind-controlled—I can't fight you too..."

"Don't worry." Jason's voice cracks and is mildly shaky. "You don't have to." He grabs a young man rushing at Terry and flips him, judo-style, onto the floor. "I'll hold 'em off if you can blow that thing." He half-nods at the flashing light installation.

"On it!" With Jason keeping a small perimeter, Terry rockets upward and over to the giant light-wall. He winces as the lights flash—on-off-on-off-on. The lenses in his cowl keep his head mostly clear, but now—this close up to it—he can feel himself getting dizzy. Sleepy, in fact. It'd be so easy to... to...

_[[Focus, Terry!]]_

Terry shakes himself awake. "Roger!" He sticks the charger to the wall with extra-flammable sealant and falls back, letting his gliders pull him away from the blast-radius. When the charger goes off, the wall erupts in sparks and a wave of black smoke. The whole bar does dark as the lights burst and go black.

All at once, the mob of people freeze and fall to the ground, moaning slightly. Terry sees only the quickest flash of red as Spellbinder turns to bolt out of the Juice Bar.

"He's on the move," Terry growls into his comm. He fires up his jets to go after him, but Jason has already made it across the room first. Terry notes with a cold wash of dread that Jason has a gnarled and nasty looking knife unsheathed in his hand. "Ja..."

Jason moves blisteringly fast; Spellbinder's legs are kicked out from under him, which Jason follows with a sharp hook-kick to the masked man's face. Spellbinder lets out a cry and is on his knees when Jason grabs him firmly by the back of the neck and presses the knife against his throat.

Terry's breath is frozen in his throat. He can't move, can't think. He sees flashes of Mad Stan and the knife growing out of that one nameless thug's body like a metal vine. He hears Max's warning ringing in his ears. Oh God, he's going to have to do it, isn't he? He's going to have to fight Jason, have to stop him...

"That was some trick." Jason's voice is hard and seemingly emotionless, cold like steel. "What was that supposed to be anyway?"

Spellbinder's voice is smug from under his mask and Terry can almost  _see_  him grinning. "Your greatest desire. I have to admit—I'm impressed. Not many can break out of one of my illusions. It must have been very painful for you."

Jason snorts. "Oh please. You're second rate—you're not even a knockoff Scarecrow. You're a wannabe Mad Hatter. Pathetic."

"Hmmm. You don't actually believe that," Dr. Billings half-chuckles. "You're using insults as a shield. Predictable, really. If my illusion hadn't touched a nerve, I very much doubt that you'd want to kill me as much as you do right now." Spellbinder carefully points his chin at the knife.

Jason is silent for a moment then chuckles. "Kill you? Hardly. I mean, don't get me wrong—shrink psychobabble always makes me want to hurt things. But you're really just not that important." Jason whirls the knife back toward him and uses the handle to whack Spellbinder on the head sharply. The costumed therapist slumps to the floor, unconscious, as Jason loosens his grip.

Terry feels his breath leave his throat in a tight wave. He presses his 9-1-1 signal, even though he's pretty sure that the smoke billowing out of the Juice Bar windows has already alarmed the neighborhood and that authorities are likely on their way—but better not to take chances.

_[[Tell Jason that his time here is up. I want him out of my city. He needs to move on.]]_

Terry hesitates, seeing the tightness in Jason's shoulders. "Not now," he whispers back at Bruce.

_[[What? Terry...]]_

"Trust me. Not a good time."

The bodies on the ground groan louder as more people start to wake up, rubbing their heads and bruised limbs. Terry hears the police sirens in the distance.

"Thanks for your help," Terry says to Jason. ' _And for not crossing that line...'_  he adds mentally.

Jason nods. "Tell the surely-freaking-out old man that I won't make a habit of it."

Terry half-smirks. "Will do."

He wants to add... something.  _'Sorry our not-date got completely interrupted. Sorry I never got to see you dance. Sorry Spellbinder clearly showed you an illusion of something which cut deep.'_ Instead he just nods silently at Jason as he rockets out of the Juice Bar skylight and heads back toward the Bat-Wing.

.

Jason stares out at the Gotham skyline and shakily takes another drag off of his cigarette. The ember burns and draws ever closer to the filter. He considers briefly lighting another one. _'So much for quitting,'_ a sarcastic inner-voice chirps at him. He quietly tells the inner-voice to go fuck itself.

It's late—early, actually. He can see the first hints of orange peeking over the horizon and beginning to reflect off of Wayne Tower—but he doesn't want to go to sleep yet. At best, he'll have nightmares. At worst... he'll dream of Spellbinder's illusion. A painfully happy dream would be far, far worse.

He is contemplating his options when he hears the fire-escape to his apartment building squeak with use. He turns to see Terry pulling himself up and onto the roof. He must have already returned the Bat-suit, because he's back in his normal clothes—tight black tee shirt and dark gray slacks clinging like a second skin. Jason curses to himself. Yep, definitely lighting that second cigarette...

Terry raises an eyebrow at him as Jason strikes flame and draws in a throat-full of smoke. "Thought you quit."

Jason tries to sneer, but he's pretty sure the look comes off as mildly sheepish. "Lectures from Bruce, or Dick, or Babs, or Alfred—those I could handle, kid. But you? You're, like, a third of my age. You're not allowed to nag."

"Not nagging," Terry says, plucking the cigarette from Jason's fingers. "Not lecturing."

The kid takes a deep drag off of the cigarette and passes it back as he blows some of the smoke out through his nose. He half-smirks at Jason, who is too stunned to school his expression. Terry may as well have pulled a rabbit out of the top of his head. Huh... the kid is just full of surprises.

"You..." Jason's voice half-cracks and catches in his throat. He coughs to clear it. "You shouldn't smoke, you know. I'm the immortal one here. You still can corrode your lungs."

Terry smirks. "Now who's lecturing? Don't worry—I don't smoke anymore. Just did for a little bit in juvie. All in the past..." He looks up at Jason, the light of the morning slowly revealing his face and pushing away shadows. "So. Spellbinder."

Jason grunts in reply and pulls another draw off of his cigarette. "Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Okay." Terry nods quietly and takes a seat on the roof ledge. They both wait in silence, watching the light reflect from glass and metal building to glass and metal building.

"It just sucks," Jason finally whispers. "Do you know how many times Bruce and I fought Scarecrow? I think I must have faced my 'greatest fears' over and over again. But those, well, they go away after the toxin wears off. And you're relieved—you can just keep telling yourself 'oh, it's not real' and move on. What's terrible about your guy's illusions is that you want the fiction to be reality—that there's no comfort in saying 'it's not real.'"

Terry nods. "We've had some real problems with that. People Spellbinder hit not being able to come back to reality. Some of his illusions mess with serotonin levels in the brain. One hospital had two different people—guards from Gotham First National Banks—try and commit suicide after they woke up from a 'Binder trance. They didn't want to face reality."

Jason is grim, quiet. In his mind, he sees a young Bruce smiling at him from the side of a hospital bed.  _"It's all going to be okay, Jay."_

"You know," Terry's voice breaks through, pulling Jason out of his fantasy. "I don't think there's a whole lot of difference between our greatest hope and our greatest fear."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, let's take my friend Max. She's said that her greatest fear is not being good enough, not making a difference. When she was targeted by Spellbinder about a year ago, she got caught up in an illusion where her parents—who are usually gone traveling and pretty absent from her life—tell her how proud they are of her and how good she is, how much of a difference she has made. They're two sides of the same coin, you know?" Terry sighs and looks out toward the sun. The light reflects orange off of his face and Jason can't help but stare. "Commissioner Gordon—Barbara—has had these relapses of Scarecrow toxin. Apparently she got hit hard with a concentrated dose as Batgirl and it never fully cleared her system—it just goes dormant. So, she was having this episode and going through a tough time and I was trying to help her solve a case as she was freaking out and, at one point, she turns to me and yells, 'You're not him. You'll never be him.'" For a moment, Jason can hear the pain in Terry's voice and winces. He can imagine how that heard to hear. "And," Terry continues, "that's weird, because—for me—that's both my fear and my dream rolled into one. I'm trying to be him, you know? Be Batman. Be as good as him. As skilled. As reliable. But... that's also my fear. That I'm going to wake up one day and  _be_  him. Bitter, obsessed, alone. I don't want to do that. To be that. You know?"

Jason nods. "Welcome to the Bat-club, junior. Get all of our issues for the price of one tricked-out suit."

Terry chuckles darkly. "Yeah. I've heard Tim and Mr. Grayson say something similar. They all tried not to be him. But there's also that admiration, you know? That—despite how mean he can be, how paranoid and distrustful and harsh—he's the best. He'll always be the best and no one will ever be as good as he was."

"Yeah," Jason breathes. "Bruce is... well, who and what Bruce is." Jason's memory floats back to grueling nights in the cave, practicing for hours on the parallel bars until his arm muscles screamed, Bruce refusing to let him put on the mask and cape until he was practically perfect. Until he met the man's seemingly infeasible standards. Those sharp blue eyes, calculating and evaluating. Looking for any sign of error or weakness, anything that could be exploited in the field, anything which could jeopardize the mission.

Jason feels a shiver run up his spine as he thinks about his own training sessions with Terry. He wonders if his own eyes have that aspect to them. If, after all this time, he's just trying to be Bruce after all...

Jason shakes his head and sighs, stamping out his finished cigarette on the roof ledge. "I think you'll be okay, kid. You're right—you shouldn't be Bruce. You shouldn't even be trying. I mean, in so many ways, he is Batman. It's hard for so many of us to separate him from the mask, you know? But that doesn't mean that's the end of what 'Batman' can be. You're making it your own. And," Jason smiles to himself, "you have a profound amount of heart. You won't end up like him. I'm actually not sure if you could if you tried. Grayson and I? We both bought into  _him_ —into the cult of Bruce. And, well, we both ended up bitter and alone, didn't we? But you... I think you'll be okay."

Jason turns to Terry. The sun is reflecting off of Wayne tower in just such a way that a line of white light cuts across Terry's cheek like an arrow pointing toward his lips. In his tiredness, Jason doesn't stop himself from acting on impulse. He reaches out his hand and traces the light on Terry's face lightly with one finger. He feels Terry suck in a breath. Sheepishly, Jason pulls his hand back and half-smiles.

"You should get home."

"...yeah." Terry frowns, hesitating. "I just... are you okay?"

Jason chuckles. "I think you're boss would say that there's a variety of evidence that suggests I haven't been okay for quite some time. What sort of scale are we using here?"

"You know what I mean." Terry's voice is firm but achingly caring. Jason doesn't know what to do with that tone, doesn't know what it means.

"Yeah," he finally breathes. "I'm okay." And, it dawns on him, that might actually be true. Terry's presence on the roof has calmed him, made the illusion seem more distant, less important for some reason. He sighs and begins to walk toward the fire-escape. "Thanks, Terry."

As he steps down the fire-escape ladder, he wonders how worried he should be that Gotham is starting to feel like home again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spellbinder's quote about illusions and pleasure is from Sigmund Freud. Seemed fitting for an ex-psychologist.


	8. Earning Trust

The temperature seems to fall considerably, Dick Grayson thinks to himself as he steps through the clock's hidden door and into the expanse of the cave on the other side. Some of that temperature change has to do with physical differences—wet, dripping stone; open air; flapping bat wings; and a lack of insulation. However, a great deal more may have to do with the fact that Dick and Bruce haven't spoken directly to each other in nearly a decade. Oh, they haven't completely lacked for communication—there was a Christmas card here, a message sent via Tim Drake there. But nothing more than cursory obligation, and certainly nothing face to face. So, the message that Bruce left for him this morning, the one asking him to come to the cave for a conversation, is throwing Dick for a loop, tilting his whole world out of balance.

He takes a deep breath, tasting the wet and icy coldness that the Bat Cave had long etched into his memory, and starts the achingly long walk down the cave's stone staircase.

Bruce is at his computer console, the screen lighting the whole cave a dim blue. Grayson pauses on his path toward the computer station, stopping to stare at the first prototype of his Nightwing costume, carefully preserved behind sterile glass. It's very different than the way he keep his own, last version of his costume. Bloodied and cut through with bullet-holes, he keeps it open to the air, able to be touched and the memories confirmed with visceral realness. Here, memories seem condescended and distant—he wonders if Bruce does that intentionally,if he makes things clean and ordered and shiny so that he doesn't have to think about the darkness and the pain and the chaos that many of these boxed-up memories contained.

He catches a vision of himself in the glass and realizes, not for the first time and not without a sense of irony, that he's really starting to resemble Slade Wilson. It's not just the ever whitening and greying hair or even the eye-patch that he wears to cover the mangled remains of his right eye which remind him of the man called Deathstroke the Terminator—although those would both be comparable hallmarks of both Dick Grayson and Slade's physical appearances right now. No, instead it is, at its core, the tired severity of their eyes. They have both seen too much, become too jaded.

At least, Dick decides, he made a less harmful decision to get out of the heroing business all together and focus on acrobatics, rather than follow Slade's route and simply sell his skills to the highest bidder. Dick's life may be a tad more boring without dangers and capes around every corner... but there was a quiet justice to it that Dick Grayson treasured. And now, here Bruce was. Dragging him back in—even if only for a moment.

He sighs, cursing under his breath, and finally takes the final steps over to where Bruce sits silently. "Hey, old man," he means it to come out biting, but his traitorous throat won't allow it and, instead, the words sound almost reverent.

"Dick," Bruce curtly acknowledges. The former Batman's voice is sharp and cold, the tone Grayson had been trying for made manifest. He immediately regrets coming here...

"I'd like you to watch something," Bruce continues. He pulls a security camera recording on the computer's giant monitor and presses play. On the screen, Grayson sees a semi-pixilated image of the new Batman fighting a small group of Cobra cultists. While Cobra training was usually nothing to sneeze at, it didn't take long for Dick to see how out-matched the Cobras were and how much better Terry had become since they had last crossed paths. He's precise and forceful, his motions fluid one moment and tight the next. At one moment, the kid kicks a Cobra operative away for distance and then proceeds to take out another Cobra member with sharp ferocity. When the man begins to fall, Terry uses the man's shoulders as a vault to reach the next Cobra rushing from behind. Dick nods approvingly.

"That's a classic Bat-move. When did you teach him that?"

"I didn't." Bruce's voice is severe and weighs heavily in the darkness of the cave.

"Then how—"

"Someone's been training Terry secretly. Without my permission."

Dick feels like someone has poured ice water into his veins. His hands tighten into fists and it takes some effort to unclench his jaw. "So this wasn't a social call—you called me here to see if I was training him. You know, Bruce, if you'd taken any time to stay in touch and get to know me, you'd know that I have two Olympic hopefuls taking up a gigantic amount of my time, putting in extra hours before qualifiers. You'd also know that I left Gotham for an invitational in Munich for almost a month and—"

"I know all of that," Bruce interjects. "And I know you aren't the one training Terry. That's not why I called you here."

Dick pauses, unsure how to proceed. The conversation feels like walking across cracking ice, like it could drop out from under him. "Then why...?"

"Because it seemed to me that you were the best person to ask for advice."

After a moments hesitation, Bruce swivels his chair around. For the first time in what seems like ages, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson meet gazes.

"As you can imagine, my immediate reaction is to take away the suit. Terry betrayed my trust. Batman is my name, my legacy, and the suit is my property. I arranged for him to have a trainer myself. I also devoted significant time and energy helping Terry become the Batman that he wants to be—and that he needs to be. But his current training choices damage the mission for... obvious reasons. It's a betrayal. It's secretive..."

"He's trying to get better, Bruce, to do what's right," Grayson scoffs. "Not everything is a declaration of war."

"I know. That's why I called you." Bruce draws back into his chair slightly, letting the shadows surround him. "Every instinct I have about how to handle Terry, I already tried with you ages ago. Those points when I felt you had betrayed my trust, I took away the suit and fired you from being Robin. But you..."

"I just dug in my heels harder," Dick agreed. "You won't let me use my suit? Fine, I'll make a new one. I can't be Robin? Fine, I'll be Nightwing. You don't want to work with me? I'll work with the Titans." He sighs, nodding. "For all your punishments, Bruce, I wasn't safer or more obedient. But when it became clear that no amount of love or trust or history between us would stop you from distrusting me and my commitment to the 'mission'... it just made me hate you."

Someone who didn't know Bruce Wayne better would see his face as impassive and stoic at Grayson's reply, but Dick sees the slight wrinkling under his former mentor's eyes, the tell-tale signs of a held-back wince.

"I know," Bruce says. "I don't want to make the same mistakes with Terry. I've already taken the suit back twice—once for disobedience and once for protection—but I saw how he reacted. The fire in his eyes reminded me so much of you. I know that whatever I do won't stop him; it'll just stop my overseeing of him."

Dick hesitates. "You really want my advice?"

Bruce nods solemnly.

"Okay, well, I've struggled with questions like this both in my former life as leader of the Titans and with my students today. Ultimately, you  _want_  to force them to do what you think is right, to make sure they never make any mistakes—especially dangerous ones. But you can't make decisions for them... So, you do what you can to stress what you think is incredibly important, and explain  _why_  it's so important so they internalize it and don't just see it just as 'your' rule. You try and guide them in best practices and make sure they practice and are trained. But, really, you have to trust them. Trust that they'll protect themselves and do what they can to do what they need to. And, if they fail and fall?" Dick looks pointedly at Bruce. "Then you goddamn be there to catch them or at least to help them pick themselves back up."

And that's the part that Bruce had never been good at. Trust was never a part of his vocabulary, of course—after all, he has long stored a whole arsenal of weapons with kryptonite cores ready to take down his so-called best-friend and he has spied on friends, allies, and loved-ones alike. But supporting someone when they needed help? When they had failed in some way? Not lived up to his expectations or hopes? Bruce has always been even worse at that than trusting.

"It's my name that's out there every night. My legacy."

"You're right... but your legacy is more than Batman, Bruce. And—ultimately—you have to decide whether you care more about the name or the kid who's helping it live on."

Bruce is silent as Dick Grayson turns away and heads back toward the cave staircase. He pauses briefly, staring at the costume case again and remembering. "Let me know what decision you end up making," Dick calls back into the darkness of the cave. "I'd be very interested in that."

Bruce Wayne doesn't reply as the cave's door closes, leaving him alone once again.

**.**

"I really think he knows," Terry insists. Jason shrugs and chews on another spring-roll.

"Of course he knows. He's the goddamn Batman."

"Well, then why aren't I fired? Why hasn't he said anything? It's totally making me slagged!" Terry scowls and grabs the last roll before Jason can eat them all. "And, besides,  _I'm_  the goddamn you-know-what."

Jason shrugs. "Maybe he's plotting the most painful way to fire you possible. Maybe he's running tests to make sure I haven't been brainwashing you or that you haven't been infected by Starro. I don't know—why does Bruce do anything?" He dips the spring-roll in the house ginger sauce and smirks. "And no, you're not. You're borrowing the title, but you haven't earned it as yours yet."

"Oh yeah? Then what should you call me?"

"Hmm," Jason makes a big show out of pondering as he chews on a bite of mint, carrot, and ginger. "Bat-kid? Bat Jr? Bat-mite? Oh, I know!" Jason gestures dramatically with a chopstick. "Baby Bat! It's perfect. It's snappy, it has alliteration. I like it. In fact, I bet I could get Tim and Dick on board with that name too. Maybe even Babs..."

"Have I mentioned recently that I hate you? Like, a lot? Seriously. This is me loathing you." The effect of Terry's comment is ruined slightly by the fact that he is grinning ear to ear.

Jason smirks. "You may have mentioned it." He taps his chopstick on the laminate table and sighs. "This phō better be worth waiting so long for. I'm hungry and have high Vietnamese food expectations—I lived in Vietnam, you know. Gotham is going to have to do a lot to impress me."

Terry rolls his eyes. "You said the same thing about the Curry House and about living in India. Is there any place you haven't lived? Or at least any cuisine you're not going to be a pain in the ass about?"

"Mmm, I've never lived in Germany. Anywhere around here known for good borscht?"

Terry smirks and Jason feels his heart briefly tighten in his chest. How long have they been dancing this strange dance now? Two whole months? Almost fifty days of back to back training. Terry has come a long way in that time—he is stronger and his moves are faster and sharper. When they spar—hand to hand or with blunted weapons—Jason still beats Terry soundly nine out of ten times... but once in ten, Terry does something brilliant to surprise him.

As soon as that began to happen, there emerged a strange, nearly-unspoken rule that the next day's training would be replaced with a trip out for a late lunch or some sort of errand that Terry insists on dragging Jason along for. A trip to the only physical music album store in the city. The "museum" in the basement of the shopping mall in the Gotham suburbs which hosts the largest collection of Batman memorabilia in the country. A viewing platform at the top of the Gotham Ritz that gives a view on a cloudless day that even rooftop-swinging doesn't rival.

Jason doesn't call them dates. They're rewards for a hard day's work training. They're ways to blow off some steam. Any resemblance to a date is purely coincidental, he tells himself, as he tries not to notice the piece of ginger clinging to Terry's lip.

The teen finally wipes his mouth with his napkin and grins. "So, the field trip I was on earlier this week?"

Jason nods, knowing that Terry is referring to time spent on Monday with the Justice League for group training drills. "What about it?"

"Barda said that she saw, 'A decidedly notable increase' in my fighting skills. She said that—if I keep training and getting better—that she'd like to spar with me soon. Like, actually test my skills. Implying that I  _have_  skills to test!"

Jason chuckles at Terry's enthusiasm, but can't help but be impressed and even mildly giddy himself at the news. "The master combatant, former lead of Darkseid's Fury Batallion, and current professional JL brawler wants to take you on in hand to hand... and not just squish you like a bug? You're moving up in the world, junior."

Terry smirks and opens his mouth for what was sure to be a witty retort when the both hear a female voice ask—"Terry?"

Jason looks up to see a stunning young woman with jet-black hair and almond eyes walking up to their table. She has an embarrassed and hesitant smile on her face which screams "ex-girlfriend trying to be nice."

Confirming his assumption, Terry stands up with a matching embarrassed-hesitant smile. "Dana. Wow! Hi."

The girl's smile melts into more of a warmness. "It's good to see you. I didn't know you still ate here."

"Yeah, not too often. But I've been trying to introduce my friend to the best places to eat in Neo-Gotham." Jason rolls his eyes at the name for the main stretch of the city—he will never call it that. Not in a million years. "So," Terry continues, "of  _course_  I had to bring him here for your uncle's phō."

"Hmm, glad to see you haven't lost your charm." Dana turns to Jason now, not being shy at eying him calculatingly. "Hi, I'm..."

"The illustrious Dana. Yeah, I assumed." Jason holds out his hand in greeting. He does not feel at all jealous. Nope, that's not jealousy. Not at all. He thinks if he can just repeating that silently to himself that it'll become true... "I'm Jason."

"Well, nice to meet you, Jason." Dana smiles sweetly, but the smile isn't deep. She's suspicious of him for some reason—Jason can see it in her eyes.

"So," she pivots back to Terry, "are you excited for graduation?"

"Er... maybe? I still have to go back to school next week. I failed the econ final—Mr. Dellas is giving me a re-test so I can still graduate."

"Terry!" Dana's tone is shaming, like there's a puppy who has peed on the carpet. Terry winces.

"It's okay—Max is tutoring me. I actually know a decent amount... I just didn't sleep the night before the test."

Dana makes an exasperated sound in her throat. "Terry, you have to take your future seriously. Please tell me you at least are planning on college!"

"Yeah, GCC at first then a transfer over to Gotham U as long as I can keep my grades up. I think not scheduling any classes before noon will help..." Terry flashes a smile that could melt butter. The warmth clearly gets to Dana—her frustration warps into a sigh and a grin.

"Okay. Sorry—we may not be dating, but that doesn't mean I don't worry about you, you know? I'm glad Max is helping too."

"Mmmhmm. And I heard a rumor you were headed to the great city of Metropolis?"

Dana nods, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly pink. "I know it's a cliché—Asian girl going to study medicine. But I'm excited—U of M has connections with Star Labs and students have been known to get internships. I think the experience will be fantastic and I may be able to really help people, you know?"

Terry nods. Jason finds the expression on his face impossible to read. "Definitely."

Dana stares at Terry a moment—her eyes have such love and intensity that they make Jason want to stab something with a fork. He tries to school his expression into something less psychopathic when Dana turns to him. "What about you, Jason? Are you in college?"

"Actually," Jason starts, momentarily amused by the flash of panic that flies across Terry's face, "I'm already done with all my studies. I went to school abroad."

Dana's face lights up with instant interest, "Really? Wow, but you look so young."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Terry snorts from across the table. Jason resists the urge to flash him a glare.

"Where did you go? What did you study?"

"Uh, Thailand mostly, but I traveled... around. I was studying athletic training, with a minor amount of world religions mixed in." Jason remembers long sessions with Ducra trying to teach him to meditate—he was always better at breaking things with sharp objects than he was with silencing his mind.

"That's fascinating!" Dana seems to have dropped some of her distrust and looks as if she is about to ask another question when Terry's phone buzzes. Terry excuses himself quickly; Jason can tell that it's Bruce calling. Possibly a new emergency? The guess is confirmed when Terry walks back over grimacing.

"I have to go... um, hey Dana, do you want my phō? It's the number 13. That still your favorite?"

"Uh, yes."

"Great," Terry leans forward a moment as if to give her a quick kiss, then jumps back with his face flushed a brilliant red. "Sorry. Habit."

Dana giggles awkwardly as Terry flashes a quick look at Jason. Jason gives him a nod of understanding, which Terry returns with a sharp smile before he darts out of the restaurant door. The cook places the phō on the counter just a moment later.

"So, does he still do that a lot?" Dana asks, pulling apart a pair of chopsticks.

"What? Almost kiss his ex-girlfriend?"

Dana laughs. "No—have to bolt off like that. He did that to me all the time. I hate to tell you this, but if you're with Terry, you're going to have to get used to eating alone." Jason makes a non-committal noise as he gulps down some soup broth. Hmm, okay, he'd have to tell the kid that he was right—at least one place in Gotham could make a mean beef and rice noodle soup. "So, how did you and Terry meet?"

Jason fiddles with a piece of mint and thinks of the closest not-quite-a-lie response. "My family and Wayne Enterprises go way back. I met Terry while he was at work."

"No kidding? When was this?"

Jason tries not to glare at her. What was with the nosiness? "About three months ago."

She nods approvingly. "That's great. Really. I've been seeing Mark—my boyfriend—for about four months. It's nice. I don't think ours is the love of a lifetime. In fact, I'm pretty sure we'll break up before I move to Metropolis. But, well, it's good to have someone there, you know? I'm glad Terry has too—I worry about him sometimes."

"Er," Jason puts down his chopsticks, frowning. "I think you may have gotten the wrong idea. Terry and I are just friends. We're... we're not dating."

"Oh!" Dana's hands fly to her mouth and her face flushes an impressive shade of pink. "I am so sorry! I just thought... you two looked... and sounded... and, for some reason, you remind me of... god, did I put my foot in my mouth or what?"

Jason chuckles. "Don't worry about it." His curiosity latches on to one of Dana's stammers and he asks, "What or who do I remind you of?"

Dana waves the comment off. "No one. Someone Terry used to go out with. You seem nicer than him and, for goodness' sake, I'm sure far more stable. He was chain-smoking, law-breaking, trouble with a capital T." Jason tries not to wince at the resemblance. "I don't know why you make me think of him—just a weird vibe I guess. Well, anyway, sorry."

"Like I said: don't worry about it." A few moments of silence pass as they both nibble at rice noodles and drink Dana's uncle's heavenly beef marrow broth. Jason briefly wonders if he should say anything else, but he's at a loss on what he could possibly say to Baby Bat's ex-girlfriend. He wants to ask about the implication of an ex-boyfriend in Terry's past and what the story was there—Dana clearly knows about it—but Jason can't think of an elegant way to ask that doesn't sound forced or creepy. He never was a people-person, after all.

He's saved from further contemplation by his own phone buzzing. As he checks the number, he's surprised to see the code 'E410' listed instead of a full number. Which means the call is from a Bat and from a very old emergency line. The code references  _Ecclesiastes_  4:10—"If one falls down, his brother can help him up. Pity be to the man who falls and has no one to help him up."

Jason curses under his breath and answers the phone. "Yeah?"

 _[[Jason?]]_ It's Tim, which shocks Jason immensely. He was pretty sure that the former Red Robin stayed as far away from Bat-antics as possible. Jason tries to make his voice sound more flippant and casual than curious, if nothing else then for his pride's sake.

"What can I do for you, Tim?"

_[[There are a series of raging fires at Star Labs, Lex-Co, and the Wayne Enterprises Research labs. The kid went to one Wayne lab and is now headed to Star's, but the other Wayne tech fire is across town. There's no way he can get to it, and the firefighters have their hands full.]]_

"Um... okay? And you expect me to do what now?"

_[[We have a series of prototypes in the lab that's still on fire. They're nano-tech research prototypes which may change the face of medical and surgical technology. We cannot lose those—so, I'm expecting you to get your butt over there.]]_

"Not on your payroll, Drake. What stake do I have in this?"

 _[[I'll owe you a favor. A big one. And—whether he admits it or not—so will the old man. It's my project, but he's been behind it the whole way. And, honestly, I think they may be the reason the lab was set on fire in the first place—there aren't a lot of overlaps in the work that Wayne, Lex-Co, and Star Labs does, but nano-tech is one of those areas. Now, can you—_ will _you—go save my tech?]]_

Jason pops the last piece of thinly sliced beef into his mouth and chews loudly into the phone, making loud humming sounds to simulate thinking about a grave and difficult choice. The growl in Drake's throat on the other end of the line hinted at a great many swears that the younger Robin is biting back.

"Yeah, I'll help you out. Send me the address."

Tim's sigh of relief is the last thing Jason hears as he hangs up the phone. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and turns to Dana. "Well, it was... interesting meeting you. Tell your uncle that the soup was great."

"I will," Dana says. "And Jason? Even if you and Terry aren't, you know, together? Watch out for him, will you?"

Jason wonders what he did to warrant all these people asking favors of him and—oddly—expecting him to do the 'right thing.' In this case, though, he can answer without hesitating... "Of course."


	9. On the Edge

[[ _You have to move faster_ ,]] the voice of Wayne crackles in his ear. [[ _There are two more labs that were set on fire._ ]]

"Oh gee, I'm sorry," Terry pants, dodging a kick. "Maybe you missed the part about  _ninjas_  with  _flamethrowers_!"

[[ _They're not ninjas. They're well-trained covert mercenaries. Interpol reports say that they go by the name of 'RAGE'. They're known for corporate and government sabotage_.]]

Terry grunts and hooks his grip around one of the men's arms, slamming a palm strike into the dreg's armored shoulder. Both the Wayne lab and this Star Lab center were crawling with these guys—well-protected and well-armed with high-tech flame-guns and heavy kevlar. Terry finds himself using a lot of Wing Chun tonight; it seems to throw the mercenaries off and allows him to get in close, out of the danger of the flames. However, even though his strikes resemble what Master Chen has taught him, he finds his mind fixating not on the old master's advice of precision and centeredness, but instead on Jason Todd's favorite motto: "Take 'em down fast and take 'em down hard!"

By the time the last armored man is incapacitated, Terry is out of breath and dizzy from the smoke fumes. He puts out the last of the fires with the lab's extinguisher. "Looks pretty bad," he whispers. Wayne grunts in response.

[[ _Star Labs has a larger nano-tech program than the one at the main Wayne Enterprise lab. RAGE was clearly sent to do more damage to the larger programs_.]]

"Yeah, the whole room is fried. And there were twice as many of these dregs than at your lab. They really wanted this stuff destroyed."

[[ _Take a recording for the files and get out of there. You still need to intercept the group sent to Lex Co_.]]

"What about the second Wayne lab?" Terry asks as his vision flashes as he takes a series of quick photos of the Star Lab's ruined remains.

[[ _I talked to Tim. He says he's handling it._ ]]

"What?! He's in no condition to fight, especially these guys. They're really well armed, and he's been retired for..."

[[ _He called in help. Just focus on shutting down the destruction at Lex Co. Their nanotech program is as big as Star's, so be prepared!_ ]]

"On it!"

Terry fires up his rockets and zips toward the coordinates. Lex Co. (formerly known as LuthorCorp and then the ever infamous LexCorp) just opened their new research facility in Neo Gotham. Terry remembers Clark complaining to Bruce on the phone—and Wayne calmly reminding the Kryponian that the company's namesake had been dead for some time and that it was difficult—thought, admittedly, not impossible—to plan a scheme for the destruction of Superman or the League from beyond the grave. For once, Terry thinks, it looks like Lex's name is the target of villainy rather than the cause.

Terry sees smoke pouring from a lab window as soon as he's in viewing distance. He crashes through the skylight and immediately slams a hard, downward kick into one of the mercenaries.

There are seven RAGE members in the lab, their flame-guns smoking and ready. Terry hears one guy chuckle under a high-tech gas-mask. "Looks like our company finally showed up for dinner, boys!"

"Waste 'im!" another one growled, thumbing the flamethrower's controls and shooting a burst of fire in Terry's direction. Even through the suit's natural shielding, Terry feels the heat on his face and it hurts. But he's seen how these guy's fight—get in close and they don't nearly have the skill of, say, someone like Jason.

Terry grins grimly and dodges another flame blast as he sweeps one man's legs out from under him and swivels up for a sharp upper-cut across another's jaw. One flame burst hits him from the side and Terry winces as the suit's outer layer rips and melts, exposing sparking circuitry underneath.

[[ _Watch the suit. You know it's not easy to repair_ ,]] Wayne states flatly.

"Yeah, I'll put 'protect the suit' on the top of my list," Terry growls as he dodges another flame and ducks under a RAGE member's punch. "Right after 'not dying.'"

[[ _Just keep your head in the game and that's not a problem. Your skill level is higher than theirs—just don't be stupid_.]]

Terry nods and pushes forward. Up close and tight—take 'em down fast and take 'em down hard.

The men are disarmed and zip-tied within ten minutes. Not bad, Terry thinks. "Okay," he whispers, "now where are the rest of them?"

[[ _How many were in the lab?_ ]] Wayne's voice is stern over the comm.

"Only seven."

[[ _I can run a heat-signature_ ]] Wayne offers. [[ _But it may have some false reads because of the fire, and it'll drain some of the suit's power._ ]]

"It's better than nothing—we can't afford to leave these guys running around the lab. Do it."

He feels the suit hum and tingle a bit as Bruce uses the circuits to take a not-so-poor-man's outer reading. In a few moments, Bruce grunts in his ear: [[ _Nothing_.]]

"What?" Terry frowns, looking around the lab. "There were nearly twenty guys at the Wayne lab and about thirty at Star's. You said Lex Co's program was big, right? Shouldn't there be more guys here?"

[[ _Likely_.  _Lex Co's nano-research is incredibly competitive. And the company specifically announced they would be conducting most of their nano work in Gotham. If that is RAGE's target, that lab should have had a similar tactical plan_.]]

"So... the destruction of the nano-tech may not be their goal? Or, at least..." Terry looks around the lab and suddenly  _sees_  it for the first time "...at least not Lex Co's tech. Check out my visual. Notice anything weird here?"

Terry's vision flashes blue and suddenly Wayne can see what he sees: a slightly scorched lab with one computer consul and a series of chemical tubes smoking with extinguished fire.

[[ _Lex Co. wasn't a real target_ ,]] Wayne says grimly.

"Right—they did just enough damage so the company could say 'oh, we were hit too. Couldn't be us behind it!' But the destruction here isn't nearly as bad as what was at Wayne and Star. And less than half the amount of guys sent to hit a larger program? This is a set-up. Look, they only destroyed one computer—the rest of what's on fire is contained. And it just 'happens' to be high in soot and smoke... and very little destructive flame."

[[ _Nice work, detective_.]] Terry can hear what is almost a hint of pride in Wayne's voice. [[ _Lex Co. will have to be looked into. For now, though, get over to the last Wayne lab. If Lex Co. isn't a real target, then the largest number of these mercenaries might be at the secondary lab._ ]]

"And with Tim," Terry agrees. "I'm on it!" Briefly, Terry wonders what kind of 'help' Tim has called in. It will take Terry almost fifteen minutes to get across town, even with the Bat-Wing at full speed. He hopes that, whoever Drake's help is, they're able to hold those RAGE guys off...

.

Jason grins as he fires off another series of blasts, sending two more armored mercs flying back. His guns are starting to get low on charge, so he thumbs the handle to switch over to a new ammunition cell. Another five men rush forward, their flame-throwers roaring fire. Jason dodges and weaves, blasting at the men's knees and chests. One flame still singes his jacket, but Jason's hits are more precise. The men fall, groaning into unconsciousness.

Before Jason can celebrate his victory, however, he hears more of the gas-mask wearing thugs running up the service stairs.

"You aren't shooting to kill, right? I'd hate to have to explain that to the old man."

Jason whirls around to see a grey haired ex-Robin half-grinning from the doorway.

"Drake? I thought you wanted me to handle this."

"Ideally," Tim growls. "I'm getting too old for this shit. But I saw the number of guys here on the security footage—there's a chance you'll be tied up fighting off these guys and the nanos will be destroyed by the smoke damage." He holds up a clear, cubed case with a slot the size of a test-tube in the center. "I'll grab the tech. You just keep doing what you do best... well, what you mostly do best. Like I said, no deaths."

Jason rolls his eyes, even though Drake can't see the expression under his helmet. "You remember I'm using chargers and not bullets, right? A lot harder to kill people—trust me, I've experimented. Plus these guys have armor. No one's dying tonight, at least not easily."

Tim hesitates and then nods. Before he has a chance to respond, a group of about eighteen mercenaries charge out of the stairway door.

"That's my cue," Tim yells as he runs toward the doorway. "Keep 'em busy!"

"I was thinking more 'groaning in pain' than busy," Jason chirps, but Tim's already gone and the only response is the loud crack of Jason's foot hitting a mercenary's body armor and the hum of his gun as he thumbs it to 'ready.'

The next few minutes are a fury of fire, gun blasts, and colliding limbs. The men are well trained, but Jason knows he's better. Soon, most of the men are on the ground and another few seem to be considering a retreat.

"What's the word, One?" an armored man asks another, his voice muffled by his gas mask.

"Status of the other squadrons?" the other replies, blasting his flamethrower in Jason's direction.

"No word—the news is reporting that Batman showed up."

The man curses through his gas mask. "We can't return to her with complete failure. We're going to Plan C."

"Roger that!"

The second man disappears down the stairwell as Jason volleys off of a medical table and slams his foot into the remaining man's masked face. The glass eye covers crack as Jason draws his gun up so the barrel is almost kissing the man's body armor and fires. The mercenary cries out in pain as he falls backwards. Some internal bleeding maybe, Jason thinks. But nothing likely fatal—the body armor would disperse the blast. He'd kept his word to Tim... probably.

Jason is interrupted from his self-congratulations when the missing mercenary returns, a remote switch in his hand. Jason turns, pointing his gun in the man's direction, but immediately pauses when the man yells: "Hold it!" Jason tilts his helmet-shielded head to the side, waiting for the man to explain. The mercenary responds by holding up the switch. "This whole building is wired to blow. I can press this button and set a series of chargers off now, or you can just wait. I just armed them—they'll explode in seven minutes."

Jason curses and takes a step toward the man, who yells "Hey!" again and waves the remote trigger in reminder.

"Where. Are. The. Bombs." Jason's voice is thick, dark, and deadly. He thinks he sees the mercenary shiver slightly.

"All over the building. We planted over twenty of them, all armed and all of which could take down a small building on their own. You can waste time grilling me and get us all slagged, waste time trying to diffuse them, or be smart and get the fuck out of here!"

Jason stares at the man silently for a moment over the gun barrel. Then he curses, lowering his weapon. "I'm not saving your men. Get them up and get them out of here, or don't. It's up to you. But let me tell you one thing—I'm very resilient. You set those bombs off before the seven minutes is up, and I'll hunt you down and make you wish you'd never, ever step foot in Gotham. Clear?"

"Er... crystal."

Jason doesn't wait to see what the man chooses—he doesn't much care if the man's associates live or die, really—as he turns and bolts out the door that Tim had exited through. It takes him a minute to find the ex-Robin. Six minutes to go.

"Change of plans. Place is going to blow. Let's move it, Drake!"

"What!?" Tim looks up from a computer consul, the screen's blue light highlighting the panic in his face. "How long do we have?"

"Just over five minutes now. So move your ass!"

"Can't. The nanos are still unstable." Tim points at a green loading bar on the blue-tinted screen. The bar is about three-fourths of the way full and inching slowly. "If I try to transfer them to the container before the stabilization is complete, I may as well have let those arsonists burn them. They'd be unusable!"

"They're not worth your life, Drake!"

Tim scowls. "I've risked it for less, Todd. I've poured my heart into this project for years now. There's so much possibility—so many people they could help. I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't at least try to save them."

Jason hesitates a moment and checks his watch. Less than five minutes left. And the loading bar has just hit eighty percent full.

"Damn it. Fine!" Jason grabs Tim's arm and pulls him away from the console. "You say these stupid machines need saving? I'll fucking save them. But only one of us has a chance of surviving a series of charger explosions—and, newsflash, that 'one' is not you. So high-tail it out of here, get to a safe distance, and I'll grab your precious nanos!"

Tim hesitates briefly, looking at the status bar on the screen. It reads eighty-five percent finished. Just under four minutes before the chargers blow.

"You'll have to be careful removing the tube," Tim warns.

"Go, you idiot!"

Tim grimaces in response, but finally runs out the door. Jason takes a deep breath and watches the green bar fill slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

Three minutes before the chargers blow.

.

Terry sees the mercenaries running over the rooftops, a few half-carrying and half-dragging injured members, about a half a block before he is technically at the second Wayne Tech lab. "Looks like they're slagging out. Why?"

 _[[Why don't you go down and ask them nicely?]]_ The dry humor in Wayne's voice is thick enough to be almost tangible. Terry smirks and thumbs the button to open the Bat-Wing's back exit.

"I think I'll do just that…" Terry plummets out, his wings flaring into action and focusing his descent. His foot slams into the last in the line of fleeing mercenaries and he smirks at the sound of cracked glass and boot-on-metal. The mercenary curses as he falls to the ground.

"Are you crazy?! You're going to get us all killed!"

"What?" Terry grabs the man by the collar of his Kevlar. "Explain!" he growls in his best Batman-voice. 

"The lab is gonna' blow—and the safest place to be is  _anywhere_  but here."

"Slag it!" Terry looks up at where the men were running from. "Who else was in there with you?" When the man hesitates, Terry pulls him closer, half-growling and half-yelling into the man's gas-mask covered face. "Tell me!"

"Uh… some old guy and someone in a red helmet. I haven't seen 'em come out—my bet is that they're going to get caught in the blast."

Terry curses under his breath and feels his chest tighten. He practically hurls the injured mercenary away from him and takes off toward the smoking Wayne Tech building at top speed.

 _[[You should have zip-tied him. We could have gotten answers,]]_  Wayne crackles over the comm.

"No time!" Terry gasps back. As he nears the building, he sees a flash of silver hair and a man stumbling out of the rooftop emergency exit. "Mr. Drake! We need to get you out of here," he calls as he lands. "Where's Jason?"

Tim coughs, shaking his head. "He's inside. He's getting the nanos. Place is going to blow in less than a minute, though, if I've been keeping track correctly. We both need to get out of the way!"

Terry grits his teeth and almost tells Drake to shove it, but common sense rules out and he finds himself grabbing the old ex-Robin by the waste and plunging off the roof, his boot propulsion lighting up and pushing them forward. He drops them both a little further than where he took down the now-very-missing RAGE merc… but he can't be bothered to look for any trace of the mercenary's escape. Can't be bothered to even ask Drake if he's okay. Can't do anything but keep his eyes glued to the silhouette of Wayne Tech's second lab building, his breath shallow as he silently counts to sixty.

When the explosion hits, it's hot and ferocious. Even at this distance, Terry feels the weight and the burn. Scraps and shrapnel are jettisoned only a few yards from his feet, and the deafening blast causes his ears to rings and his head to ache slightly.

He can barely think at all when Drake murmurs, "Oh God, is he…"

Before he can hear the end of Drake's question, Terry is in the air, wings out-stretched, boots on full blast. He lands as close to the raging fire as he can, the heat achingly hot and the smoke almost unbearable even through the suit's air filters.

 _[[Terry! Be careful!]]_  Wayne's voice is sharp and insistent, filled with something that almost sounds like panic and worry. But Terry will think about that later. Now he just has to look. Has to search for any sign…

And there it is. A figure pushing through the flames. Terry's breath escapes from his mouth in a heavy rush as he sees the silhouetted figure hit the Gotham air, coughing as he pulls his helmet from his head. Jason's coat is warped and nearly melted and his right arm looks raw where the blast has burnt through leather and Kevlar.

But he's alive.

"Oh, Jesus," a voice from behind Terry sighs, relieved. "I was about to start getting a complex." Terry looks to see Tim Drake half vaulting over the rooftop, his right hand still braced on the fire-escape. "You okay, Jay?"

"Oh yeah," Jason coughs. "Never better. In fact," he coughs again, his face strained, "let's schedule another massive explosion where I breathe in too much smoke for next week too." Another cough. "Sounds real peachy."

"I'm sure. Um… I hate to ask, but…"

Jason nods his head and holds up a clear cube, a glistening test tube locked in its center. "It's fine. Like I'd go through all that bullshit and not" pause for a cough "protect your stupid mini-bots. Just take the" cough "damn things, will you?"

Tim smiles, his face showing signs of wrinkles in his relief. "Thanks, Jason." He takes the cube from Jason's grip carefully, staring at the contents like it's a potentially injured child. After a moment of inspection, Drake breathes a sigh of relief. "I should get this to a status chamber. Assuming the damage wasn't too bad, the primary lab will do." Tim nods once more at Jason. "Thanks—really."

"Yeah, well," Jason seemingly tries to stifle another cough, but it ends up slipping out anyway, whistling through gritted teeth. "You owe me. Just remember that." Drake nods knowingly and then carefully descends the building's fire escape.

"Bruce?" Terry whispers into his communicator.

_[[What is it?]]_

"Just wanted to let you know that my system's going to go dark. Don't freak out or try to reboot, okay?"

_[[What?! Terry…!]]_

Terry flicks the switch to shut off the suit, feeling the softening of the fabric as all the circuitry goes down. He peels off his mask in a fluid motion. The lack of filtration suddenly makes the night air smell like campfire and burnt rubber.

Jason looks over and smiles at him weakly. "You know, when there's a bunch of smoke in the air, people usually put on masks, not take them o…. mmmmff!"

Terry doesn't think, he just moves on instinct, his mouth pressing against Jason's, hard and desperate. Jason stiffens for a moment in shock and Terry worries for a second that he was wrong, that he misread everything. Then a dam breaks somewhere and Jason melts, the uninjured arm snaking around Terry and pulling him closer. Then it's like a force of nature, two frames pressed into each other, mouths hungry and opening. Terry feels more than hears Jason moan into his mouth and his entire body shakes as Jason's hand moves from Terry's waist and is suddenly fisted in his hair, roots shrieking as Jason pushes his head closer, as they breathe each other's air, and moan, and gasp. It's hot and raw and everything that Terry imagined at three in the morning alone in his bed, legs tangled in his sheets and biting his lip to stay quiet. In some ways, it's more than he imagined—because who could have guessed how Jason would pull him in like oxygen, or how their hips would press together, or how wet and hot—how  _perfect_ —their mouths would be pulling and sucking and pressing at one another?

Just when it seems almost too much, like something important will shatter if this continues, Jason pulls back, a hacking cough escaping from his mouth.

"Oh, geeze, sorry…" Terry gasps, his face burning both from embarrassment and from the lingering flames. Slag it, he hears sirens in the distance—Gotham's finest on their way.

Jason shakes his head and coughs once more as he gathers his breath. "No… problem." He looks up, his stare glassy-eyed and hesitant. "That was… unexpected."

"Really?" Terry feels his face grow hotter as he fingers the slick texture of his mask between two fingers. "I thought we'd kind of been flirting and dancing around this for a while."

"Hmm," Jason scratches the back of his neck and half-smiles. "I wasn't sure if I was just reading into things. I guess not…" He looks pensive as he stares off into the twilight sky. "Sounds like we're going to have company soon."

"Yeah," Terry agrees. His heart is pounding against his ribcage like it's trying to escape from his chest. "God, I need to check in with Bruce and charge up the suit. Plus, he's going to be wondering what my going dark was all about."

"Hmm?" Jason looks over, like Terry's words woke him up from a strange dream. "Oh. Right. Yeah." He smirks and gestures at the mask dangling from Terry's fingers. "Better put that on, Baby Bat. The pigs are on their way."

Terry snorts, rolling his eyes at Jason dramatically—as if a semblance of normalness with break this tension, this aching. He pulls on his mask and ghosts his hand near the switch to turn it on. He pauses, looking up at Jason through the cowl's white lenses. "So… assuming I can get out of the Bruce's third-degree relatively quickly with vague and non-committal answers," Terry starts, "should I… come over? I mean, I can bring some bandages and burn cream. How's your arm?"

Jason shakes his head. "No worries on the aid. I'll be healed by tomorrow mid-day, maybe late afternoon. It'll sting and really fucking itch for a while, but nothing from a kit's going to help. I just need some time. Maybe some sleep. But… yeah. You can come over. If you want to."

"Uh… well… do  _you_  want me to?"

Jason chuckles. The sirens are louder now, almost on top of them. As if on cue, both of them turn and run, vaulting onto the next roof and slipping into the shadows. Jason grins, white teeth flashing in the night. Terry looks at the helmet in Jason's hand and wants to will it to crack and break—anything to avoid it hiding that knee-melting smile of Jason's again. As if heading his thoughts' silent call, Jason's mouth becomes larger, gets closer, and now Jason's face is right next to Terry's. They're breathing the same air and the space between their lips is like electricity and Terry wonders when Jason's going to press forward, going to kiss him again, going to breathe him in and engulf him and drive him crazy. Instead, Jason's mouth just hovers an inch away from Terry's. "Sure," he breathes against Terry's mouth. "Come on over."

Before Terry can curse at him, call him a serious slagging tease, Jason bolts away, escaping over the rooftop edge and out into the darkening night.

Terry takes a moment to let his breath slow and his limbs stop feeling quite so numb. Under his mask, he can feel his mouth twisted into a pretty silly, stupid smile. He thumbs his suit back on and tries to think of a decent excuse to tell Bruce. But god, it's hard to think of anything right now. He tries to focus as he spread's his suit's wings, points himself in the direction of the parked Bat-Wing, and fires up his rockets.

For one spectacular moment, Terry is happy.


	10. Cycles

For one spectacular moment, Jason is happy.

As he slips into his apartment window, his whole body feels tense and pulled tight like a strained spring, ready to snap. Jason drops his helmet onto the dusty apartment floor, wincing as his scorched arm throbs in protest at the movement. A groan escapes his lips, sounding thunderous in the silent room. His mouth still tastes hot and his chest is tight. He feels like he's fifteen again, which seems ridiculous. But that was the last time he felt this… giddy. Over just a kiss.

Really, Jason can count on one hand the number of kisses that he really remembers, that really mattered to him. The first was Roy—back when they were kids, back before they both fell into their cages of darkness and pain. Before Roy, Jason had done other things with guys—not all of them consensual or really all that pleasant—but he'd never actually just  _kissed_  anyone before. With Roy it had been perfect, all teeth and smiles and video games and light.

After that, there was the cute blond caterer at the Wayne Foundation banquet. The boy had been eighteen and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. Jason had been bored and horny, and had no problem lying about his age. They snuck away to the coat closet and had shed everything but their dress-pants and socks when there had been a loud banging on the closet door, and Bruce's stern voice warning that—if Jason wasn't back in the ballroom in three minutes—there would be  _dire_  consequences. He still remembers the look of horror on the young man's face, the giggles and gasps of "oh fuck" as Jason tried to button up his shirt with shaking hands.

The kiss—a whole lifetime and resurrection later—from Talia Al' Ghul hadn't been one of lust or love, really. But that didn't make it any less memorable. It was a call to battle, a challenge. "You remain unavenged." That kiss had set him on a path, had changed his life.

The kiss from Starfire. Now that was something. Sure, it was just to absorb his memories, but there was never someone who could look at you as deeply and affectionately as Kori. Jason remembers the smell of the sea air, the sun rising as he poured out his heart to the curious and stunning alien. The memory is so beautiful it almost hurts.

And then there was Isabel. That memory… well, that's weighted with darkness and guilt. The kiss was great—so was the sex afterwards. But Jason put her in harm's way. Almost got her killed. That's something worth remembering—a warning and providence for the future.

And that's it, he realizes. Not that he hadn't kissed anyone since Isabel—almost forty years had passed since then. That would be crazy. Since then, he'd traveled all over the world, gotten sucked into other universes, discovered he couldn't die anymore. You know… the usual. And yes, he occasionally fucked around. But that's usually what it was—hot and fast and casual. Any kisses were perfunctory brushing of lips just to make it all seem not too awkward, or shallow, or slutty. Nothing meaningful, though. Nothing even all that memorable.

The kiss with Terry, though? Holy… shit… It was desperation and electricity. A chilling fire that spread everywhere that Terry's body touched his. He wanted to pull the kid to him and swallow him whole, to collapse into him, to forget…

Ah, but there's the rub. He can't forget. All of a sudden, reality sets in. It breaks through the lingering heat of lust like shards of broken glass, lodging in his heart and under his fingernails. The giddiness is now starting to transform into something dangerously resembling panic. All it takes is a few more minutes and all of Jason's veins are throbbing with a type of fight-or-flight response that seems to all hinge on a sense of dreadful certainty, an acknowledgement of one, clear fact: This? Whatever this thing with Terry is or whatever it could be? It  _isn't_  going to work.

Still frozen, standing there by the window, every situation Jason can imagine flashes before his eyes, each one filled with more pain and brokenness than the last.

Some of these flashes are of his past—the look on Bruce's face when he throws his batarang and slices Jason's throat, the image of Isabel broken and passed out on the floor, and even the look on his mother's face in the African sun as the Joker appears from behind a mosquito net.

But some of these flashes are, he thinks, more prophetic visions of the future—what it would be like when Bruce found out, when Superman found out, when they had to deal with Terry's mom, when Jason kills someone in front of Terry (and that's just a matter of time, if he sticks around, he realizes. A kiss doesn't change the fact that he thinks Bruce is a broken and idealistic idiot when it comes to keeping criminals alive…), when Terry and Jason find out they're completely and utterly incompatible. ' _I mean, Jesus_ , _'_  Jason thinks, ' _he's a fucking kid_.  _Dick was barely out of short-pants at his age. Was still a Titan. What the fuck do I think I'm doing?'_

Jason stares at the blue glow of his computer console, at the crumpled clothes on the floor… and makes a decision. Tim Drake had implied earlier tonight that he thought killing people was what Jason "does best." But Jason knows deep down that there's a skill he's perfected well before he learned to throw a shuriken or fire a gun. It's a skill branded into his cells, as familiar and comforting as cigarette smoke.

Moving over a box of computer chords, Jason picks up a duffle-bag from the floor and proceeds to do what he has always—and likely will always—do best.

It takes a little over an hour to break down the security system, pack the duffel bag, and load up his car. By the time he enters the Gotham Loop Freeway, Jason has almost convinced himself he's made the right choice. The only choice he could have made...

Almost.

.

_'Well_ , _'_  Terry thinks, ' _what a difference two hours makes_ …'

It has been a pretty long time—all things considered—since Terry has felt a real sense of fury. Since he's become Batman, he has sometimes felt desperate, angry for sure, frustrated at other times, and fearful occasionally. But real rage and fury is something which Terry associates with his 'old' self—that kid who would fight anyone at the drop of a hat, who would boost cars and damage property, anything to leave his mark on the world around him. When he was younger, it was often him and Charlie Bigalow against the world. Charlie always had a smirk on his face when they got into trouble, as if his battle with the world was a game, something to amuse him in an otherwise dull existence. But Terry never found the fighting or the property destruction fun… but he did find it therapeutic. This anger and determination and fire—he never knew where it came from—it was so unlike either of his parents, something intense and seemingly burning in Terry alone.

Since he'd become the Batman, that fire had been calmed and fed. That destructive rage had been exchanged for calculating rationalness, for plans and tactical strikes. Even when he was fighting for his life, Terry felt different than he had when he was a fury filled kid lashing out at everything and everyone.

But now? Terry feels the anger return like a ghost—so hot and palpable, itching his hands and tightening his neck.

Jason's apartment is empty. A clean sweep. Just a few remaining computer chords and a plastic water cup left in the trash bin. Terry almost feels impressed at how quickly Jason packed up even his meager belongings. He can almost see it as he looks around—he must have taken down the computers in record time; must have clicked all his weapons into those large, ridged metal carrying cases; must have shoved all of his clothes in his black duffle-bag.

It almost looks like Jason was never here at all.

Terry wants to break something. Badly.

His eyes dart around briefly and he considers chucking the trash bin at the window for old time's sake. He can imagine the satisfying sound of breaking glass, the slight relief that it would bring. But property destruction has always been a slippery slope with him. Inevitably, it becomes just a salve on an open wound. When that doesn't make him feel better for long, he'll find himself in one of Neo Gotham's many 'bad' parts of town. He'll insult the roughest looking guy there. It won't be long before it's fist to face, the taste of blood, and bone on bone. Won't be long before Terry's body is singing with adrenaline and the rage is calmed for a moment.

Charlie always loved that side of him. He would tease him lightly as he pressed antiseptic covered cotton-balls against Terry's split lips and gash-covered foreheads. Would praise 'Tiny Terry' to his other friends and call them pussies and slaggers in comparison.

But Charlie is gone. And so is Jason, it seems. And Terry knows where giving into that rage and the destruction leads—the memory of a grey jumpsuit with JUVENILE DETENTION stamped in peeling white letters across the back is the only reminder he needs.

Balling his hands into tight fists, his short nails digging into his palm, Terry takes a deep breath and a final glance at Jason's apartment. Then he heads downstairs, starts up his bike, and heads back to Wayne Manor.

.

Bruce Wayne sits in the darkness of the cave, files on RAGE and corporate connections flashing across the screen. He may not be able to fight crime on the ground anymore, but damned if he's going to feel useless and give up the 'detective' side of the job. Terry's not ready for it anyway—but, even if he was, Bruce still knows that he holds onto this role with an iron grip. With this, he's still Batman. At least partly.

The click of the Wayne Manor clock sliding open raises hairs on the back of Wayne's neck and he tightens his grip on his cane, bracing for a fight with an intruder. He relaxes slightly when he sees Terry descend the dark stairway.

"I thought you had plans with 'friends,'" Wayne mutters. He hadn't believed Terry's earlier transparent misdirections and vagueness for a second. The young man's nervous tapping of fingers and eagerness to get out of the cave hinted at something other than a trip to the Juice Bar with Max. But Bruce hadn't pushed it… yet.

"They fell through. Thought I'd come here and work off some energy. You know, at least use my time productively."

Bruce frowns, watching Terry slip off his jacket and his shoes. Terry is tense, a bottle of emotion. Strange. "You  _should_  use this time for sleeping, if you feel you have 'free time,'" Bruce retorts.

"Couldn't sleep right now if I wanted to," Terry chirps. His voice has a forced flippantness, with the harsh tension of a darker emotion underneath. Terry isn't nearly as good as Bruce is at lying. Bruce feels they need to work on that, that it's an essential skill for a Batman, but—for now—he's slightly grateful for Terry's artlessness.

Bruce turns back to the computer and half-goes back to work. But mostly he listens. Listens to the sound of Terry wrapping his hands in tape and starting in on the punching bag that Bruce had imported from Pakistan. The bag is lighter and thinner than an American boxing bag—but it is also harder and rougher, taking more control and focus. And, most of all, its noises are fairly loud in the emptiness of the cave. So Bruce listens.

Terry's punches start calculated and sharp, tight and controlled strikes to the bag's sides. Then the speed increases slightly and Terry shifts some of his attention to the center, sharp upper-cuts hitting the bag at its core. The speed increases again and Bruce can hear the bag swing as Terry gets in close, punches leading into elbows and shoulder strikes in a sharp fury.

Terry isn't fighting the bag right now, Bruce can tell. But he is fighting something.

He wonders briefly if he should turn around or keep pretending to work. This decision is almost made for him when a strangled sound escapes Terry's lips, a half-growl of frustration and half-near-sob. Bruce knows that sound. He's made it before himself—a sound made of a rage and pain that cannot be contained. One that has to slip out, one way or another.

Bruce is on his feet before he knows it, shuffling over to the training area, his hand tight on his cane. "You'll need to put some salve on those hands," Bruce states flatly.

Terry pauses and glances at his hands in clear surprise, sees them red and torn and sore even through the wrapping. "Fuck… yeah, I guess I will."

"You should do it now," Bruce replies, nodding for Terry to follow him to the medical station. Terry follows silently, his tenseness and pain practically echoing in the emptiness of the cave. Bruce slowly takes out the medical kit and thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to be on this side of the looking glass. How many nights had Alfred pulled out this kit? How many times had Bruce insisted—siting on this medical table—that he had to get back to work, to keep thinking about something, to fold secrets into himself? And how many times had Alfred firmly stopped him, tried to pull him back to the light and to a sense of stability and sanity.

But Bruce isn't Alfred. The boys always liked Alfred. No one likes Bruce. Bruce doesn't do comforting hands on shoulders, or sugar cookies, or hot chocolate. Bruce does orders for tighter dismounts from the parallel bars, or lectures about security. Bruce has always been a far better Batman than he has been the "reassuring father figure." So, he stays silent while he massages the green salve into Terry's torn knuckles.

It's actually Terry who finally breaks that silence. "You got your wish, by the way." The words are practically spit out through clenched teeth. Bruce raises an eyebrow and waits for Terry to continue. After a moment, he finally does. "Jason's gone."

Ah.

Over the last month and a half, they both had done a fairly thorough job of pretending that Bruce didn't know that Terry was training with Jason. Bruce wonders if this is the time to reveal how obvious it was—how the moves and sharpness that Terry used would have told the story even if Bruce hadn't placed a tracer on Terry's bike weeks ago. Which he did. And that just confirmed how often Terry took trips to old town, how often he parked his bike next to a secluded and inexpensive apartment building. One which rented by the month—Jason's modus operandi.

Bruce looks at the tension in Terry's neck and shoulders, the grim set of his jaw. Something clearly happened with Jason—did Terry witness Jason commit a murder? Did Jason say something—did they fight? Bruce finally answers the silence with: "I did warn you. Jason isn't someone you can trust, Terry. If you had listened earlier when I said…"

"Slag it, Bruce! I cannot listen to this right now!" The violence and intensity in which Terry pulls away surprises Bruce and he finds himself having to brace himself on the medical table as Terry suddenly pauses in his rage. Bruce sees Terry's face shift from anger to… something else. Like an unstable building starting to collapse, Terry curls in on himself, arms braced over his chest like he is giving himself a hug or protecting his chest from the cold.

"I…" he starts "I… I know—you need to yell at me. But please… can you just lecture me tomorrow? Whatever you're going to do, just… just do it then. Add reps to my workout. Limit my patrol. Take away the suit. Just… not tonight, okay? I don't think I can take it."

Bruce is silent for a moment.  _"When they fall... you goddamn be there to catch them,"_  Dick had warned him not long ago,  _"or at least to help them pick themselves back up."_

That was always really more of Alfred's job. Catching and mending his fallen birds. But then… Terry isn't a "bird," is he? He's a Bat. Bruce sighs and sets his cane to the side.

"No need. To wait or for a lecture." He sees Terry's brow furrow, the young man's blue eyes flash skeptically. Bruce clenches his jaw and continues. "I understand—you felt you needed more training. I put a lot of pressure on you. And it's dangerous out there. I can't be angry at you for wanting to be prepared. And I understand why you may be… drawn to Jason. You're always curious about the past— _my_  past. Dick, Tim, even Barbara, and of course myself—we all deal with the sins past by burying them. Pushing them aside and letting them rot. That was never Jason's way. It must have been… refreshing to have someone more open than we all have been. And I know there are similarities between you and Jason. I do…  _understand_  that." Terry's gaze is intense now, but the surrounding expression is one of almost humorous shock and bewilderment.

Bruce sighs, the difficult part out of the way, and continues. "But you know that I'm not prone to trust. Most would say that I don't trust anyone. Ever. But I'm trusting you every time you put on that suit. That's my legacy. My name. My life. I don't give that away lightly. So I  _am_  trusting you—every night. And I know that you're going to have to… make your own decisions and your own mistakes. But, from now on, if it has  _any_  connection to Batman, you need to tell me about it. No secret training. No hiding. You want me to keep trusting you—or to trust you even more? You have to trust me too. Even when I make mistakes—or threaten to take away the suit…"

"Or replace me with a robot, so you'd actually have something in the suit which takes orders," Terry reminds him.

Bruce snorts and shakes his head. "That wasn't… a permanent option. More like a backup plan. You know, if I had perfected them, it would have made your month of injury a lot easier."

Terry's face relaxes into a half-smile as he exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. "Sure, Wayne. I'm sure robots were the answer."

Bruce shrugs, picking up his cane again. "Superman used to have robots, you know."

"Yeah, well, Superman used to wear bright colors too. Don't see you copying that one." Terry's shoulders have relaxed slightly. He and Bruce wait in silence a moment as Terry stares off into the darkness of the cave.

"He's a fucking bastard," he whispers finally. "He… Jason and I had something we needed to talk about. And it was… important. I guess. I mean—fuck—it just felt like something that made a lot of sense. I was supposed to swing by after dropping off the suit. But he was just gone. Everything. Every trace of him. It wasn't a kidnapping or a fight. He just packed his bags and split, just two hours after… slag it… you know what? Nevermind."

Bruce tries not to betray either his feelings of surprise or concern. Just  _how_  close had Jason and Terry become? He silently curses himself for not putting the tracer on Terry's bike sooner. Of course, since he has a location for where Jason had been staying, he can search local security cameras for signs of Terry's bike from the last few months and use those to pinpoint how often and for how long he had been stopping by. He could also triangulate that position and calculate Terry's most common routes and how often they had likely intersected with Jason's. But that, well, that was a project for another night…

"You say it was something that seemed important?" Bruce finally asks.

"Yeah," Terry bites out.

"And he left instead of talking to you about it."

"Yeah again. Did I mention he's a bastard? God, this night slags."

Bruce stands there solemnly. He has run out of things to say. He could try to tell Terry how much that makes sense for Jason, how even as a boy he'd slip out and escape rather than deal with problems directly. Sure, if the problem was a person with a gun or a hard right hook, Jason would charge in and take him down. But emotions? That was always something different. Jason didn't do emotions—other than anger—any better than Bruce did.

But Bruce doesn't know the words to explain that to Terry—doesn't even know if he fully understands it himself. He can't explain to Terry what he saw in Jason that first night they met, when Jason was fleeing from an uncertain future, a box of prescription drugs under his arm. He can't express the distrust that Jason showed Dick, the constant worry and suspicion that he'd be replaced by the former-Robin-turned-Nightwing. Nor can he show the look of hate and betrayal that Jason gave Bruce the first time he fled Gotham.

Bruce finds that he truly has no words of wisdom. No insights that could smooth Terry's pained and angry expression. However, as if channeling his old guardian, he finally says: "I'm going to go make some tea. Come upstairs and have some."

"Huh?" Terry's brow wrinkles in surprise. "Um, okay."

The two men walk toward the cave's stairway, almost a parody—Bruce thinks—of old memories. Bruce is not someone who comforts or easily shares feelings of trust and care and love. But right now, there's a young man with dark hair and bright eyes who's angry and hurting and who fights every night to keep people safe. And—like history repeating a strange and familiar melody—there's a silver-haired old man behind him on the stairway, who stitches his wounds and makes him tea, and who can't help but think of this damaged young warrior as his son.

For now, Bruce thinks, that has to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This multi-chapter arc is done, but there are two more sections to this series to go! Stay tuned


End file.
